Seventeen
by Sky Writes
Summary: Sherlock was seventeen years old in February of 1995. So far it hadn't quite been the kind of year that would go down in history books, but it would be the year that changed his life forever. These are the seventeen years that made Sherlock Holmes the detective we know him as today.
1. 1995

Author's Note: I couldn't decide if I wanted to write a prequel or sequel to _Three Days_...so I wrote both! This story will not necessarily be told in chronological order, and each chapter will potentially be stand alone- though everything will make sense as one story in the end. I recommend reading _Three Days_ before reading this story. That story is not very long, and it gives a little insight into some of the references you will see later on. However, technically this could be read as a stand-alone fic. There just may be a few moments of confusion, but it shouldn't ruin the story. I hope you enjoy the first chapter! Please let me know what you think! Feedback is always appreciated, including requests for what you might like to see in the future. With each chapter being its own individual story, there are endless possibilities.

Warnings: There will be references to abuse all throughout the story, especially in this first chapter.

* * *

Sherlock was seventeen years old in February of 1995. So far it hadn't quite been the kind of year that would go down in history books, but it would be the year that would change his life forever.

Night was falling over London as he stood on the stoop in front of his brother's flat. His hand trembled inside his glove as it hovered by the door. The constant battle of _do it_ and _run away_ raged inside his head until it was all too much, and he knocked.

He held his breath. His eyes fell down on his trainers, which were worn from a day of walking the city. The noises of the street behind him sent shivers down his spine. A pounding headache had followed him all day, and every shout from the neighboring flats, every door slam, every bark from a dog, sent waves of electrifying pain through him.

A cold wind suddenly swept down the street, and he was grateful for the scarf wrapped around his neck. His jacket, too light and ill-fitting, hung loosely around his shoulders. He stood in stark contrast to the upper-middle class neighborhood his brother moved to at the beginning of the year.

After five humiliating minutes the door finally opened. There was a long pause; Sherlock knew this to be Mycroft's way of purposefully making him feel uncomfortable.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft finally asked.

"Can I come in?"

Mycroft nodded and let him in without question. Sherlock kept his eyes locked to the floor, unwilling to look up just yet.

"Nice flat," Sherlock muttered, though he hadn't bothered to look around.

He could tell simply by the woodwork in the floors.

"Why are you here?" Mycroft asked. "Does Father know?"

"No!" He swirled towards him, without thinking.

He froze. Mycroft stared at him, his eyes immediately finding the dark purple bruise beneath his eye.

"I mean," he continued quietly, "I've just been out. Walking around. I thought I would drop by."

"You walked from Devon?"

Mycroft took a step closer and reached up- Sherlock flinched. His brain pounded at the sudden movement; he closed his eyes.

"Sherlock, who did this?" Mycroft demanded.

He grabbed his face, angling it so that he could examine the bruise.

"It's fine, it's nothing," Sherlock lied. "Just a stupid fight."

"A stupid fight?" Mycroft shot. "Sherlock, this is bad."

Sherlock let out a nervous laugh.

"Stop overreacting. I never should have come here."

He tried to turn away, but Mycroft grabbed his arm. He immediately tensed, and his brother loosened his grip.

"Stay," Mycroft said, "please. Tell me what happened."

Mycroft turned, leading him through the main hallway. Sherlock's eyes roamed over the walls and ceilings of the entryway. In the distance he could still see a few unpacked boxed stashed in the sitting room. A couple of spare pictures of the country side lined the walls, with no family photos to be seen. The place wasn't exactly _homey_- which was probably exactly what Mycroft wanted.

He was led into a bathroom, where he took a seat on the edge of the tub. His brother opened a medicine cabinet and fished around in a stash of ointments and bandages.

"I'm going to go get some ice," Mycroft announced.

He disappeared for a few moments. Sherlock sighed, allowing his pounding head to rest in his hand for a few moments. When he looked up he was forced to face himself in the mirror.

Convincing himself that he didn't look that bad failed immediately. It was no wonder Mycroft panicked when he first saw him. The purple bruising beneath his eye stuck out amongst the pale yellow bruises surrounding it. His hair was still disheveled. He reached up to where his scarf was strategically hiding-

His hand shot back down when he heard his brother enter the room again.

"See?" Mycroft said. "You look bloody awful."

Mycroft sat next to him. Sherlock squirmed as the ice was placed against his face.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked again, this time with sympathy.

His brother's eyes softened as he was able to examine him up close. Sherlock looked away, too embarrassed to watch as he tended to the wound.

"I shouldn't have provoked him," Sherlock muttered. Mycroft neither agreed nor argued. His eyes fell to the ground as he admitted: "I don't want to go to university."

Mycroft's hand hovered mid-air as he stared at him.

"Did you tell him that?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock bit his lip.

"It's a stupid waste of time," he continued, rambling on without actually answering his question. "It will be boring and…"

_The people there won't like me, and I won't like them._

"Sherlock...do you actually know what you want to do with your life?"

Sherlock just shrugged.

"Research, maybe," he replied, speaking just above a whisper because he was too embarrassed to admit he had actually given this quite a bit of thought. "You know, science stuff."

"Yes," Mycroft sighed; he went back to tending to the wound. "Well, 'science stuff' typically requires some kind of education."

"He thinks it's stupid," Sherlock whispered. "He's says that I'd be throwing my life away solving a puzzle that's not meant to be solved."

His eyes darted towards his brother to steal an observation of his reaction. Mycroft's lips were pursed together; he was clearly struggling with the urge to say something he knew he shouldn't say.

"And what does he think you should study?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

"Medicine. Law. Or something equally as dull."

"Yes, nothing more dull than saving human lives."

"You know what I mean," Sherlock shot.

"Actually, I don't," Mycroft sighed and raised a hand to his own forehead. He messaged his head for a moment before handing the bag of ice to him. "And yet, I do. You're fine, physically, at least."

"I'm _fine_," Sherlock insisted, embarrassed to think Mycroft would realize otherwise.

"Is it just the eye?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock swallowed nervously, and replied:

"Yes."

Somehow, he knew his brother knew he was lying. But Mycroft didn't argue with him.

"I suppose you need somewhere to stay," Mycroft said as he stood up.

Sherlock didn't reply. He regretted ever coming here…he wasn't sure what he had been thinking. Of course Mycroft wouldn't be interested. He had his own problems to deal with.

"You can stay here for the weekend, I have a spare bedroom." Sherlock looked at him in surprise, and Mycroft explained: "I'm not going to force you to go back there."

He nodded, too overwhelmed with relief to say anything.

"The bedroom's down the hall," Mycroft said. "I can make you something to eat, if you'd like."

"I'm okay," Sherlock said.

His stomach was tangled in too many knots to even consider eating. He stood up, wincing as blood rushed to his head at the sudden movement. He knew Mycroft was still watching him, but Sherlock avoided him as he walked down the corridor in silence.

He found the spare bedroom in the back of the flat. When he closed the door and looked around, he was surprised to find the room was already furnished- as though Mycroft had been expecting him.

There was a door to a washroom. Sherlock turned the knob and stepped inside the cramped room. Through the dim light, he stared at himself in mirror.

The bruise looked slightly better thanks to the cream his brother administered to it, but it didn't do much for the tenderness he felt around his eye.

He swallowed, feeling a sick to his stomach as he slowly began to remove the scarf. For the first time he examined the small, but prominent, bruises on his neck. They looked disgusting and raw. He quickly pulled his collar back a bit to hide them as he fled from the washroom.

He leaped onto the bed, where he remained for the rest of the night with his head buried into the pillow. He regretted every moment of the day, from the second he woke up that morning. Now he was interfering with his brother's life, reeling Mycroft back into the life he had so desperately run from.

He never wanted Mycroft to be a part of this.

Yet from that moment on, he would never not be a part of it.


	2. Sherlock's Secret

**Warnings:** references to abuse and drug use

* * *

_January 1996_

Sherlock shot up from the sofa at the sound of the doorknob turning. His heart race as his body snapped into panic mode.

"Not supposed to happen," he muttered to himself as he jumped up.

Eyes dashing around the sitting room, he realized in horror what a state the place was in. Clothes and empty crisp bags littered the floor. Books were scattered about the place, along with a collection of albums.

If he left now, his brother would simply think somebody robbed the place, but he knew he would never make it out on time. The door opened, and Sherlock was left standing in the center of the room, a frozen deer in the headlights. Mycroft stepped in, holding his head in his hands. Sherlock swallowed nervously; his brother was already exhausted- this wouldn't help his cause at all.

At last, Mycroft looked up. He stopped the moment their eyes met.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft said. Sherlock couldn't reply. He was too terrified. Mycroft's eyes flashed around the room, and Sherlock braced himself. "You broke into my flat!"

"Your flat was too easy to break into."

"You broke into my flat!" Mycroft repeated, shouting this time. The echo of his voice off the walls sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. "How long have you been here?"

Sherlock just stood there, too stunned to speak. He hadn't heard Mycroft yell at him like this in so long.

"Sherlock, you can't just break in," Mycroft said as he stormed into the room.

As he headed for the kitchen, Sherlock realized he should warn him-

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exploded the moment he stepped into the room.

Sherlock cringed. Too late.

"You ate all my food!" Mycroft cried. Suddenly his brother looked down and noticed the clothing thrown about the room. "And wore my clothes!"

"I didn't have anything to wear," Sherlock mumbled, "or eat."

Mycroft let out a long sigh. His head hung to his chest. As his brother ran a hand through his hair Sherlock noticed that his knuckles were bruised and bloody.

"What did you do, mug somebody?" Sherlock shot.

Mycroft's eyes lifted towards him slowly, and so coldly that Sherlock immediately stopped mocking him.

"Sherlock, sit." He obeyed, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Why are you here?" No answer. "Sherlock!"

"I had nowhere else to go."

He muttered his answer so quietly that even he hardly heard it. It did nothing but pain him to have to admit this to his brother. After spending the last three weeks alone, Sherlock almost managed to convince himself it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

But as he looked up and saw the sympathy seep through Mycroft's eyes, he knew he knew it was as even worse than he feared.

"Why aren't you at Father's?"

His brother's voice had fallen, as Mycroft was obviously realizing what was going on.

"He kicked me out."

Sherlock's eyes fell to the floor. That familiar sickening feeling returned to his stomach, and every horrible memory he worked so hard to push away came flooding back.

"What about university?" Mycroft asked.

_It was horrible._

"They kicked me out too."

Mycroft drew in a deep breath, and it was only moments before rage filled his eyes.

"He can't do that!" Mycroft exclaimed.

Sherlock sank into the couch; _embarrassment_ would perfectly describe how he was feeling. He never meant for Mycroft to find out about any of this. Not about his father, about how he utterly failed at being a student, or about how he was essentially homeless.

"According to him I'm 18 years old," Sherlock said, "and he can bloody well do what he pleases."

Mycroft remained silent as he slid into an armchair across from him. Sherlock shifted, suddenly feeling rather uncomfortable, as though he were in a therapist's office and not his own brother's flat.

"You came here," Mycroft stated quietly.

"Yeah," Sherlock whispered, "I…I knew you were to be gone on business for a while. I didn't think you'd be back so soon. I'm sorry, Mycroft."

His brother's eyes remained closed; if it was because he was thinking or tired, Sherlock did not know.

"And what did you do to earn such treatment?"

He refused to answer. He was aware of his breathing becoming labored, of his right hand traveling to where the scars remained hidden beneath his the sleeve on left arm. He couldn't tell Mycroft…there was no way his brother could know how _weak_ he was.

"Sherlock," Mycroft warned, "either tell me or get out because I'm really not in the mood to be amused by your delinquency."

"I never knew you were amused," Sherlock mumbled.

His brother's eyes flashed towards him, and Sherlock swallowed.

"I…I got into…" _Drugs. Cocaine. The wrong crowd. The very wrong crowd._ "I…"

He couldn't admit it. He was sick with shame, but the sensation was almost a relief- it was the first time he truly felt guilty for all he did. For whatever reason, only his brother could make him feel that way.

When Mycroft's eyes fell on his arm he realized he had been scratching it- and drawing attention to himself. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as his brother stood and strode over to him.

He forced his hand out of the way-

"Mycroft-"

-and rolled up the sleeve of his jumper.

Mycroft froze, his eyes melting into terror and sadness at the sight of the faded white track marks. They each held their breath; not a sound could be heard in the room. Sherlock longed to be able say something, anything.

"Mycroft-" he attempted again.

His arm was thrown to the side. Sherlock's heart leapt as he was violently shoved back.

"You've pulled a lot of stupid stunts over the years, Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed. "But this? _This!_"

He tried to step away, but Mycroft grabbed his arm, _hard_.

"Mycroft, listen to me, please!"

"How could you be so _stupid?!_"

"You don't know what it's like!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice breaking. "You don't know what _he's _like-"

He knew that wasn't true. He knew it wasn't fair. Mycroft stepped towards him but stopped when Sherlock flinched at the sudden movement.

"Do you really think I don't know what you're going through?" Mycroft began slowly. "Do you really think I don't know what it's like to be humiliated by him?"

"It wasn't the same," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes, willing his lips to stop trembling. "You had Mother."

His brother drew in a sharp breath, and Sherlock closed his eyes, desperately fighting back the tears spilling out of them. Suddenly everything he had been holding back for weeks, everything he tried to mask with the drugs, was rushing out of him at an uncontrollable and terrifying speed.

"Sherlock, please," Mycroft begged. "I'm sorry. It's just the thought of you..."

_Being an addict,_ were the words he knew his brother was too scared to say.

"I'll leave," Sherlock whispered.

His hand reached for the doorknob.

"And go where?" Sherlock stopped. His brother stepped towards him again and this time, he didn't protest. "When did this start?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. Suddenly his limbs felt numb. When turned around, he felt like he was moving through a dense fog. He stared at his brother, eyes red-rimmed with tears, and admitted:

"University," it was so difficult to tell the story that he nearly became physically ill. He wrapped his arms around himself and wished to be able to sit, but his body refused to obey the command to move. "I just…I needed to make it all go away."

"Make what all go away?"

He closed his eyes again. After running away to his brother's flat nearly a year ago, Sherlock had kept quiet about the horror going on at home. He knew Mycroft would try to get involved- and he knew that wouldn't turn into anything good. University soon became an excuse to get away, and Sherlock thought that if he could only leave the house and be away, physically, that everything would be okay again.

But everything wasn't.

"I just wanted to be normal," he admitted, aware that he was making no sense, "to _feel_ normal. But I hated university. I hated the classes and the people there, with their perfect lives. I just knew I couldn't do it."

Mycroft ultimately looked as though he didn't know what to think, but most of all Sherlock was shocked to see hints of sympathy in his brother's eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Mycroft pleaded.

A hoarse laugh escaped him.

"You weren't around," Sherlock said, "you have your job and…I have to learn how to deal with all of this, right?"

"Your school kicked you out?" Mycroft said, ignoring his irrational answer.

Sherlock nodded.

"Turns out some of the other students are a bit more experience than I am in not getting caught," he admitted. "When father found out…"

His voice trailed off. Inside, he began to shut down just at the thought of that night.

"What did he do?" Mycroft asked softly.

Sherlock swallowed, and answered simply:

"He threw me out."

He knew Mycroft was aware there was more to it than that, but his brother didn't press him for a further explanation.

"You came here," Mycroft realized, eyes lit with horror.

Sherlock nodded.

"I came here because I knew you wouldn't turn me away. I made a mistake, Mycroft. A terrible one. You weren't here, and I had nowhere else to. No money. No food. And there's not a single other person who gives a damn about me, so I just stayed. I'm sorry that I've inconvenienced you. I'm sorry I messed up your flat. I know you had a rough time in France, or wherever the hell you've been, so I'll just go and leave you in peace."

He fell silent, breathing hard as he tried to calm down. But something strange happened then.

Mycroft smirked.

"How did you know I was in France?"

Sherlock shook his head and pointed at a piece of receipt tape on the floor.

"A receipt from a café," he explained, "written in French." He waited for his brother to say something, but when he remained silent he continued: "I waited for you to return, but you never did. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have broken into your flat. I just didn't have anywhere else to go."

Mycroft's eyes fell closed; he looked as though he were making a decision he knew he would later regret.

"You can stay."

"Seriously?"

His brother nodded. He looked slightly paler than he did when he entered the flat.

"But you're going to have to figure out what you want to do with your life," Mycroft said, "you're going to have to figure out how to get passed this. I can help you. I know how he is."

_I really don't think you do._

But he didn't dare say that. He couldn't remember Mycroft getting in as nearly as many fights with his father as he did, but maybe he was just too young to fully realize what was going on at home. Otherwise, he wasn't sure what it could be that Mycroft wasn't telling him.

"Why do you think I was out at the house so much- off at the library and studying?" Mycroft asked. "It was my escape, from how things were. I knew that if I really wanted to get away then I would need to make something of myself. So I studied, and I worked hard so that I could-"

"Beat people up for a living?"

Sherlock bit his lip but didn't apologize for the comment that slipped out of him. It was too bizarre to stand there and pretend like it wasn't weird for Mycroft to return from a three week long business trip with a bloodied hand. His brother's cheeks turned slightly red, and he buried his injured hand in his pocket.

An awkward silence passed them; it was a true hint to how uncomfortable living with his brother would be. Sherlock looked around, desperate for a reason to leave, but Mycroft still acted like there was something left he needed to say.

"You're eighteen?" Mycroft finally asked.

A small smile crossed Sherlock's face.

"Yeah," he replied, "I really enjoyed the birthday card that you _didn't _send."

He turned eighteen shortly after entering into university, but he never felt like an adult until he stood there, in his brother's flat, with the realization that he had no place to go. He belonged nowhere. He would never admit he felt that way, but it would be a long time before that emptiness would fade away.

"Yeah, well I've been a bit busy, with a promotion and all," Mycroft fell silent, as he must have realized Sherlock had no clue what he was talking about.

"Mycroft...what is it that you actually _do_?"

Mycroft's cheeks turned red once again, and he turned away.

"Right," Mycroft replied, without actually answering him. "I'll get cleaned up and then I can make us something to eat."

"You have no food."

His brother sighed and took out his wallet.

"Of course," Mycroft muttered. He handed him some money. "Go buy something edible. None of this takeaway stuff, it's disgusting."

Sherlock nodded. He couldn't help but to stare wide-eyed at the currency in his hand as considered that it was the most money he had seen in a long time. Whatever his brother did, it paid well. Extremely well.

"And Sherlock?" He looked up to find his brother gazing after him, desperately, as though this might be his last chance to admit what he wanted to say. "I'm glad you came here. Really. I just…I want you to look after yourself, alright?"

"I really am sorry," he admitted. "But that's over, I promise."

Mycroft nodded.

"Glad to hear it."

Looking back on that moment, Sherlock realized that Mycroft didn't appear for one moment like he actually believed him- and for a good reason. He had no idea just how hard life would become.

* * *

Author's Note: So this story will be told a bit more chronologically than I originally intended. I just think it will make a lot more sense that way. The chapters will still be very stand alone. I'm totally up for requests if there's any certain event, topic, whatever you'd like to see in this story. Thanks for all the support so far! Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Mycroft's Secret

Author's Note: For those who already read chapter three, I decided to expand this chapter a bit.

* * *

Things were quiet between him and his brother for the next few weeks. Mycroft didn't push the subject of being kicked out of school, and Sherlock acknowledged his thanks by keeping to himself. But he couldn't hide the fact that he had no job, no friends- no life. He knew he could only go so long moping around his brother's flat before one of them went insane.

It didn't help that sleep hadn't come easily lately. The nightmares that tortured him were blurry bits of memory, but no matter how little he saw he constantly found himself waking in cold sweats and muffled screams. That night, just three and a half weeks after moving in, was no different. Too shaken to attempt sleep again, he instead paced around the kitchen, tuning his violin. He drew in the silence as he clung to the shadows, not bothering to turn on the lights. Mycroft had never returned from work, and for once he felt like he wasn't intruding on someone else's life.

The door finally opened just before three AM. Sherlock stuck his head into the corridor, watching in interest as his brother stumbled into the flat. He hesitated as he closed the door, resting his head there for a moment.

"Rough day at the office?" Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft glared at him but didn't reply. Sherlock's eyes flashed over him, taking in everything: suit, business casual- not the same as what he left the flat in. Hair- disheveled, but with traces of…_hair_ _product_? Sherlock frowned as he tried to put the pieces together. His eyes found the gold watch on Mycroft's wrist- a watch he also hadn't been wearing that morning. He was also able to make out the outline of a jewelry box in his coat pocket.

"You've…you've been on a date!" Sherlock stammered. Mycroft turned a shade of red as he shoved passed him, but Sherlock grabbed his wrist to stop him. As he admired the watch up close Mycroft stared at him, begging him not to make a scene out of it. "You're _dating_ someone!"

Then everything clicked.

"Sneaking around, fancy business casual suits. Recently purchased. And this watch. It's expensive. Nice, exactly you're kind of taste." He examined the watch closer, and Mycroft squirmed. Sherlock could only stare at him, stunned. "You're dating…"

_Not a woman_, were the words he was looking for, but he was too in shock to say them. Mycroft's eyes widened in horror, and he tore his arm away.

"It's none of your concern," Mycroft shot, "last I checked I was allowed to have a personal life."

"Not at three AM on a Friday night you're not!" Sherlock exclaimed. Mycroft stormed towards his bedroom without uttering another word. "Mycroft! I'm talking to you!"

"Go back to bed!"

Sherlock turned around, staring after his brother with his mouth agape. _I hardly know him._

Mycroft paused as he reached the stairs that led to his room. As he turned around slightly, Sherlock eagerly awaited his explanation.

"You got that from a watch?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Or no explanation.

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't sure why, but suddenly he felt _sorry_ for his brother. He could at least see that this wasn't a joke to him.

He shrugged, and replied:

"It's a gift and a curse."

Mycroft shook his head and turned back towards the stares. Sherlock stared after him, almost letting him go before he realized how utterly depressed his brother clearly was.

"Mycroft, wait!" He called. His brother stopped. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Hands stuffed in his pockets, Mycroft turned around. His eyes wondered around the dark corridor, searching for his own answer.

"I never really…I didn't…" Mycroft drew in a deep breath, took a step closer, and admitted: "I've been with women before. And it's not that I didn't like that I…it's just that, I don't meet very many people who _like_ me. Let alone in a…romantic way." Sherlock shuddered at the thought, but he didn't comment, knowing that this had to be ten times more uncomfortable for Mycroft than him. "So when I met him, and he actually seemed to care, I just…let it happen."

Sherlock nodded, though he really didn't understand at all. He had never been in love. He had never so much as met someone he would begin to care for in that way. And at that moment, he couldn't have been more relieved about that. He couldn't fathom having to deal with these emotions.

He took a step closer to Mycroft and took his brother's hand in his, examining the watch once more. Mycroft's hand trembled a bit at the touch.

"It's a nice watch," Sherlock said, echoing his previous comment, "a very nice watch. It terrifies you."

Mycroft jerked his hand away once again and hid it safely back inside his pocket.

"How long?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Four months." He drew in a deep, haggard, breath. "Is it weird that just when I think I'm happy I'm not sure if this is what I want at all?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he replied, "not weird at all."

Mycroft let out a hoarse laugh.

"Then again, look at who I'm asking," he muttered.

"Looks like you're asking the only person who's cared enough to notice," Sherlock shot. "I'm guessing this isn't something you'd want to chat about with your work buddies in between interrogations."

Mycroft turned as white as a ghost; he looked like he wanted nothing more than to drift away into the cracks in the floor.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. Don't worry," Sherlock offered, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder, "your secret's safe with me."

His brother studied him, stunned, as though he still wasn't sure what he believed.

"You're not going to tease me about it then?" He inquired.

Sherlock grinned.

"I never said that." Mycroft rolled his eyes, and he finished: "I live in my brother's guest room because I got kicked out of university. I don't think I have much of a right to judge people."

"Yeah, well you're a better person than you think."

Sherlock stared at him, in awe of the realization that his brother just gave him a compliment. Mycroft let out a shaky, nervous breath and ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm going to bed. Can we never talk about this again?"

Sherlock shook his head, grateful.

"Agreed."


	4. Sick

There were only a few times in his life when he remembered truly being sick. One of the worst times was just before his nineteenth birthday, in the fall of 1997.

It started out as a simple cold. A cough. Loss of appetite. Exhaustion that kept him in bed for days straight. Mycroft ordered him to stay inside, double his fluid intake, and left him alone while he went away on a "business trip".

By the time Mycroft came home he could hardly pick himself off the couch. He had remained there, two days straight, staring at the ceiling as he focused on his breathing.

He was freezing, but he didn't even have the energy to get up and find a blanket.

"Sherlock?"

He blinked when he heard his name.

_Hallucinating,_ he thought.

His skin was so cold and clammy that he had gone numb. It seemed to take all his remaining energy to turn around to his brother's frantic voice.

"Christ!" Mycroft exclaimed. "You're still sick?"

Mycroft rushed towards him and fell to the floor beside him. Sherlock flinched as he felt his brother's warm hand against his forehead.

"You're burning up." Sherlock closed his eyes and looked away. _Too much noise._ "Have you been checking your temperature?"

Sherlock simply groaned.

"How long have you been on the couch?" Mycroft demanded. "Sherlock, answer me."

Swallowing, he attempted to find his voice, but his throat was far too dry. Trying to speak felt like moving his tongue against sandpaper.

Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh before turning toward the kitchen. Sherlock followed him with his eyes, taking note of how exhausted his brother looked. His tie hug loosely around his neck; the sleeves of his suit jacket were rolled up to his elbows. He looked like he had been sleeping in his clothes, probably while traveling.

Mycroft returned, carrying a glass of water.

"Drink," he ordered.

Sherlock took a sip, but as soon as the liquid hit his burning throat he coughed it up.

"All of it."

He nearly vomited at the attempt, but even coughing up the liquid was painful. His chest heaved up and down slowly, like something was sitting on him.

"Trouble breathing?" Mycroft asked.

He was surprised to hear the honest concern in his voice. He offered a feeble nod.

"Chest hurt?" Mycroft continued. Another nod. "That's it. Get dressed."

Eyes closed, Sherlock desperately shook his head.

"Sherlock, you have a fever. Chest pain. An awful cough. And if the stench of this flat is any indication, you've vomited at least once. You're going to a doctor."

"No," he mumbled.

"It's just a doctor, Sherlock."

Mycroft closed his eyes and lowered his head in his hands as he sat on the edge of the sofa.

"This could get serious, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "It could be pneumonia. You could end up in the hospital. Would you rather have that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, embarrassed at the desperate, overwhelming emotion taking over.

"I can't go," he muttered. His mouth was so dry he could hardly hear himself. "Don't feel good."

"I can see that." Mycroft sighed once again. Sherlock only felt guilty; he knew this wasn't exactly what his brother wanted to come home to. "Can you sit up?"

"No. Dizzy. Chest hurts."

There was a hand on his forehead once again; Sherlock shivered at the touch. He felt something fall over him. As he shifted, he realized it was his brother's coat.

"It's too late for a trip to a clinic anyway," Mycroft said. "We have a medic on staff, I can see if he's up to a house call. Of course, after that mission I wouldn't be surprised if none of them want to speak to me ever again."

He muttered the last part to so quietly that Sherlock knew he wasn't meant to hear it. He didn't question it.

"Sleep," Mycroft ordered. "I'll wake you when the doctor gets here, but if the fever gets any worse we might have to go the hospital."

"_No."_

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Fine. Die on my sofa. See what I care."

"Mycroft…" his brother turned around at the weak, desperate, plea. Sherlock could barely hold his eyes open, but he somehow felt the need to explain why he was being so difficult. "I just don't like hospitals, okay?"

His watery eyes met his brother's, and he knew Mycroft understood. His mother died in the hospital. He landed in the hospital after more than a couple of _accidents_ in the years following her death. Hospitals were full of nothing but bad memories, and his medical history was littered with incidents he never wanted his brother to find out about.

Mycroft picked the empty glass off the floor and placed a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock shifted at the touch, but he found that at last he was able to feel someone comfortable, like might finally find sleep.

"Yeah?" Mycroft replied. "Well I don't like you being sick."

He closed his eyes as Mycroft turned away. Sinking into the couch, he tried to shut out the rest of the world and relax. As difficult as this proved to be, Sherlock couldn't help but to feel safe, somehow, now that he wasn't alone. Now that he realized that, for once, someone cared.


	5. Wedding

"Hold still," Mycroft ordered through gritted teeth.

"You're kidding yourself if you think I'm wearing this."

"It's just a tie!"

"It's stupid!"

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock tore the tie away and faced the mirror. He scrawled when he saw how ridiculous he looked, wearing one of Mycroft's old suits and a dress shirt that was too big for him. Mycroft stood behind him, arms crossed, but looking perfectly handsome in his tailored suit and designer tie.

"Why are we going to this again?" He mumbled.

"It's just a wedding, Sherlock," Mycroft replied.

"It's just one of the most awkward things you could ever ask a person to sit through," Sherlock said. "Making people sit there for hours while you show off how in love you _think _you are and how much money you have to waste. It's disgusting."

Mycroft rolled his eyes as he turned away, reaching for his dress shoes.

"Yes, well it's Aunt Marie's part of the family, and we like Aunt Marie."

"No we don't."

"Well _I_ do."

"You only like her because she still thinks you're adorable little Mycroft, who used to run around reciting definitions from the dictionary!"

Mycroft's cheeks turned an amusing shade of maroon.

"I was five!" He exclaimed. "You weren't even born yet!"

Sherlock only grinned.

"Well you're not getting out of this one," Mycroft said. Sherlock let out another dramatic sigh as he threw himself on the couch. "Get up, you'll wrinkle your clothes."

He closed his eyes, ignoring him until he felt Mycroft push his feet away as he sat next to him.

"You've barely left the flat in weeks," Mycroft pointed out. "You need to get out and get some air. See the sun for a change. The kids in the flat downstairs think you're a vampire."

Another grin spread across his lips.

"Brilliant," he replied, without opening his eyes.

Mycroft swatted at his leg.

"I'm eighteen, you know," Sherlock pointed out. "I don't have to do what you say."

"As long as you're living under my roof, free of rent, you do."

He had no counter-argument to that one. Hiding his face in his hands, Sherlock let out a groan of frustration. It was one of the things he hated about living with his brother the most: the constant reminder of how helpless he was.

"I don't want to go," Sherlock said, miserably, "last I checked our family doesn't care much for me."

He held his breath, instantly regretting admitting the last part. A moment of silence drifted between them, and he knew Mycroft could see right through him. He always could.

"That's what this is about," Mycroft stated quietly.

Peeling open his eyes, Sherlock stared at him.

"Do you think they know?" He asked.

Mycroft studied him, meetings his eyes- unafraid of revealing the truth.

"I'm sure they do," he admitted. "But they also know the kind of person Father is. There's a reason he's not invited."

"He's not?"

A wave of relief swept over him. Mycroft nodded.

"No one knew what was really going on, back home," Mycroft said, his voice hardly a whisper.  
"I think they suspected…but they'll never be brave enough to talk about it. Of anything, they'll pity you."

Sherlock threw his arm over his face, groaning once again.

"Great."

"They'll also admire you, for getting yourself out of a bad situation."

"No they won't."

"You're right," Mycroft admitted.

Another brief pause.

"Do they know…" Sherlock hesitated. Mycroft hated talking about his…habits…as much as Sherlock hated having to bring it up. "Do they know what I did?"

Mycroft simply stared at him, void of answers.

"You don't have anything to prove to them."

"But you do?"

"I'm a lot older than you," Mycroft said, "but that doesn't matter. It's a wedding, Sherlock. It's the one event where you never have to worry about being the center of attention."

Even still, just the very thought of sitting in an empty table, in a crowded room, filled with music and _dancing _sounded like a nightmare. He couldn't even begin to fathom how miserable the actual ceremony beforehand would be. He turned away from his brother, burying his face into the sofa.

"You're acting like a child," Mycroft shot.

"It will be _boring_," Sherlock mumbled. "I won't even have anyone to talk to."

"Then you can talk to me," Mycroft said. He sounded uncharacteristically embarrassed as he admitted: "I'll be alone there, too."

Sherlock turned toward him, studying him with interest. As promised, Mycroft kept extremely quiet about his private life. He was doing so well at keeping his secrets that Sherlock nearly forgot he had such a big secret to keep.

"There will be enough drama surrounding us," Mycroft said. Once again, his cheeks reddened. "No need to make things that much more difficult."

He stared at him a moment longer, surprised that Mycroft would ever actually admit that kind of fear, before replying:

"So you admit this will be excruciatingly painful?"

Mycroft let out a long sigh before getting to his feet.

"Be ready to go in an hour," he announced.

Ignoring him, Sherlock turned back toward the sofa. Suddenly he was overcome with the desperate need to simply sleep the day away. Lately, sleep was the most effective away of avoiding the fact that the whole world was out there, waiting to judge him.

"We all have to own up to our mistakes, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained silent. He closed his eyes tightly as he breathed slowly.

_In, out. In, out._

He knew Mycroft would succeed in dragging him out of the flat eventually. He knew he would have to face what he did, the family he abandoned. Each day felt like a ticking time bomb to when this would all blow up in front of him.

But until that day, he was determined to pretend like none of this was real.

And so he fell asleep.

* * *

Author's Note: Thank you for all of the support so far! Feedback is always welcome!


	6. Fire

Sherlock breathed into the mask slowly as the chaos of the scene melted around him. He was grateful to be sitting in the back of the ambulance, which shielded him from onlookers. He reeked of smoke; the ashes ruined his one decent pair of clothing. The police officer- who introduced himself earlier as "Jenkins" knelt down in front of him. Carefully, Jenkins removed the mask. A round of coughs escaped him as he breathed in fresh air.

"You okay, kid?"

He offered a weak nod.

"The paramedics say you're fine," the office explained, "just a bit of smoke inhalation. Next time, just order take-away, alright?"

The officer smirked at his own joke, but Sherlock didn't offer any response. He accepted the hand that helped him out of the ambulance. The dizziness and nausea hit him almost immediately.

"You're cleared to enter your flat," Jenkins continued. "But take it easy for a while- get some rest. Leave the windows open. I can refer you to a re-decorator, if you'd like, for the-"

"What's going on?"

Sherlock cringed at the sound of Mycroft's voice. His brother was home nearly hour early than expected. His eyes met the officer's, pleading with him to lie.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Jenkins asked.

As Mycroft stepped between them, Sherlock was even more discouraged to realize how exhausted his brother looked. Hard day at work then, and for Mycroft that could mean anything from rogue prisoner to world war three.

"I rent this flat," Mycroft replied. He looked from the smoke-ridden Sherlock to the last firemen leaving the flat. "What's going on?"

His brother asked the question directly to him. Sherlock swallowed and made a weak attempt to find his voice, but the officer saved him.

"Look, sir, with all due respect, the kid is suffering from minor smoke inhalation. He should be resting and-"

"_Minor_, smoke inhalation?" Sherlock couldn't decide if his brother was mocking the less-than-severe diagnosis or in awe of what was happening. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

Letting out a deep sigh, Sherlock finally muttered:

"Burnt the kitchen."

"What was that?" Mycroft asked, breathing in slowly and deeply, obviously fighting to keep calm.

The officer offered a helpless laugh.

"It's not as serious as it sounds," Jenkins assured them. "Just some minor smoke damage to the countertops. And the cabinets. And well, the floors."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft exclaimed.

Mycroft stormed into the flat before anyone could argue. Sherlock followed him reluctantly and froze when he heard a loud groan from the kitchen. Then suddenly everything fell silent, save for Mycroft's footsteps. His brother let out a deep a deep sigh.

"Sherlock, sitting room."

Sherlock obeyed. When they entered the room Mycroft leaned against the sofa; Sherlock made an attempt to sit in the armchair but-

"No!" Mycroft exclaimed. "You'll get smoke everywhere. God this place smells."

A moment of silence passed between them as Sherlock fought to avoid looking at him. But as always, he still found himself looking directly into his brother's eyes. Only then did Mycroft continue.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked, much more calmly.

He opened his mouth, but it was honestly difficult to find the strength to speak against his sore throat. His voice was small, embarrassed, as he admitted:

"I tried to cook."

Mycroft's eyes widened; Sherlock could tell he was forcing himself to not laugh.

"Cook?" His brother repeated, incredulous. "You nearly burned down the flat…cooking?"

He nodded. This was possibly the most embarrassed he had ever felt. Even getting caught with the cigaretts, the drugs- then he felt bad, but never embarrassed. He was certain his cheeks were burning red.

"What, dare I ask, were you cooking?"

This time, he truly couldn't find the strength to speak. His answer was barely a whisper, more like a squeak. He wished for nothing more than to be able to melt away.

"Toast."

Mycroft uncrossed his arms. His eyes dashed around the room; he opened, closed, and re-opened his mouth a few times before he finally croaked:

"Toast?" Sherlock nodded. He felt like he might be sick- and not just because of the smoke. "_Toast_?"

He kept expecting a lecture, shouting, anything, but it never came. Instead Mycroft slapped a hand on his shoulder and _laughed_.

He couldn't be sure when the last time he heard his brother laugh was. In fact, he wasn't sure if Mycroft had ever laughed. Soon he was laughing so hard tears appeared in his eyes.

Somehow, this only made him feel more miserable.

But he still had to ask:

"You're not mad?"

Mycroft shook his head, raising a hand to his forehead as the laughs rolled out of him.

"Sherlock, I've been at the office for the past thirteen hours, and in that time, I've dealt with-" Mycroft stopped himself, as he often had to do, from revealing more than he should. "Well, let's just say things far worse than nearly burning down the flat because of _toast_. Come on."

Sherlock looked around, confused. Mycroft never turned down an opportunity to lecture him.

"You're not going to yell at me?" Sherlock said.

"Not today," Mycroft promised. He placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him out of the room. "I'm exhausted, and we're not staying here. Let's go find a hotel."

When they reached the entryway into the flat, Sherlock refused to go further.

"Are you okay, Mycroft?" He asked carefully, studying him.

Mycroft paused, hand rested on the doorknob as he stared into the distance. At last he took a deep breath and turned towards Sherlock, his eyes full of sympathy.

"You're nineteen years old, Sherlock, and your biggest problem is learning how to properly make toast. Enjoy that."

He didn't offer any further explanation, but Sherlock could tell by his brother's eyes how unbelievably _tired_ he was. And when Mycroft was tired, he tended to suddenly become more sincere than ever.

"By the way," Mycroft added, "_toast_. How- I mean, do I even want to know?"

Sherlock simply shrugged.

"You have a weird toaster."

Shaking his head, Mycroft opened the door for him.

"Come on," he said again. "We need to find somewhere to stay and get you some new clothes. We'll take care of all this tomorrow. Oh, and Sherlock?"

He looked up at him, bracing himself for impact. Maybe this was when Mycroft was really going to yell at him. Instead with a straight-face, and deadpan eyes, Mycroft continued:

"No more cooking."

* * *

Author's Note: Cheesy, I know. But I felt like writing something cheesy...so there!


	7. Fear Of Storms

Warnings: References to child abuse and drinking

* * *

His eyes were wide as lightening shone through the sitting room curtains and thunder shook the walls. The storm woke him up around midnight, and it was only when he stumbled into the room to sleep on the sofa that he realized Mycroft never returned home. It was becoming a common theme, and he was beginning to wonder if this was how his brother always lived.

Another strike of lightening flashed before his eyes. Sherlock blinked, and as he momentarily closed his eyes he realized how exhausted he was. It was the summer of 1996, exactly six months since he officially moved in with Mycroft. To him, it felt like six months too long. He had no game plan when he ran away from home, but he never thought he would stay with his brother for this long.

Mycroft still never pressed the subject of what he went through at home. Sherlock was perfectly content with the silence. He could never admit to Mycroft the flashbacks that crossed his mind each time he raised his voice or the nightmares that returned every time he closed his eyes. At seventeen years old, he knew he should be able to deal with bad dreams and shouting.

But he couldn't endure the dreams _every night_. It was humanly impossible.

So he stayed up for nights and days on end, terrified of what would happen if he fell asleep.

He knew Mycroft was suspicious, though he kept quiet. Sherlock would catch him staring at him out of the corner of his eye, or he would hear him hovering outside his room. Mycroft seemed to be just as nervous about talking to him as Sherlock was.

A booming clap of thunder sent a shiver down his spine. His eyes dashed around the room; suddenly he had an eerie feeling that someone was in the flat with him. Instead of running and hiding, or getting up to investigate, he simply sank further into the sofa.

His eyes closed_, a hand reach towards him…_

The thunder snapped again, and he flinched violently. His eyes flashed open to find Mycroft rushing into the flat from the rain. He hid deeper beneath the blanket, hoping Mycroft wouldn't see-

"Christ, what are you doing in here?" Mycroft said, his voice slightly-higher than normal. "You scared the hell out of me."

Sherlock remained silent as he lay facing the window, watching the lightening.

"Fine," Mycroft mumbled when he didn't reply. "I know you don't want to talk to me."

He hoped that would be that, and he could be left again fighting off sleep. Instead a lamp turned on beside him, and Mycroft settled into the armchair. His brother sat directly across from him, staring straight at him.

"Do you mind?" Sherlock muttered, shielding his eyes from the light.

"Sit up, Sherlock."

He sighed.

"No," he shot, "I'm not six."

"No, you're not," Mycroft said as he ran his hand over his face. Sherlock could tell from the circles beneath his eyes that his brother was exhausted. His suit was drenched from the rain, and his fingers trembled- but not from the cold. Anxiety seemed to be something Mycroft struggled with daily- quietly, of course. "Lately you act more like you're five again."

Ignoring him, Sherlock rolled on his side so he was facing the other way.

"Why are you refusing to sleep in your room?" Mycroft asked. "I never took you for one to be afraid of storms."

"I'm _not _afraid of storms!" He exclaimed, though the cry came muffled into a pillow.

"Of course I use the word 'sleep' lightly," Mycroft continued, ignoring him. "You've been walking around in a daze. You're eating more, which is good for your extreme lack of weight, but it does nothing to make up from the energy you're losing. You've been fidgety and on edge for weeks. You don't talk to me."

"In my defense, that's really nothing new."

Mycroft let out another dramatic sigh.

"You've been here for six months, Sherlock, and-"

His heart began to pound. His eyes widened in terror. Sherlock turned, slowly, toward his brother. Of all the things he expected Mycroft to say,_ this_ wasn't one of them.

"You're kicking me out?" He said quietly, his voice trembling uncontrollably.

Mycroft's face melted into sympathy. His brother leaned toward him slightly; Sherlock felt like he might be sick.

"No," Mycroft reassured. His heart skipped a beat. "No, you're not going anywhere. What I mean, Sherlock, is that we have to stop avoiding talking about this. It's clearly bothering you."

Sherlock swallowed nervously. He paled slightly, becoming as physically transparent as he felt.

"I'm fine," he lied.

His brother studied him for a long moment. Sherlock forced himself to make eye contact, to show him he was strong enough to face him. At last Mycroft nodded, and leaned forward to stand up.

"Okay then," Mycroft said casually, in a way that indicated he didn't really mean it. "Well, I for one am not ashamed to admit I'm tired. I suppose I'll just head to bed."

Mycroft stole one last glance to him- giving him a second chance.

His heart pounded as he took it.

"Mycroft-" his brother stopped immediately. Sherlock's eyes dashed down to the carpet; he was too embarrassed to show his face. "Does he know I'm here?"

He knew he was being studied. He could almost hear Mycroft's thoughts of "Oh, that's what this is about". Mycroft sat down carefully, as to not startle him.

"No," Mycroft whispered. He cleared his throat, searching for his strength. "Grandmother does. I had to tell someone, but I asked her not to tell him, unless it was some kind of emergency, or something happens."

Relief washed over him. He felt like he could breathe for the first time in months. Yet at the same time, tears threatened to erupt from his eyes.

"So he hasn't asked about me, then?"

_Why_ did he care about this? It wasn't even the question that haunted him these past few months. Why in god's name was he concerned about what his father thought of him?

"Sherlock, I don't really talk to him," Mycroft admitted. There was a quick pause, before Mycroft asked: "What's this about?"

Pulling his knees to his chest, Sherlock looked away, wishing he never said anything to begin with.

"Nothing," Sherlock muttered, "forget I-"

"You're going to have to either start talking to me or see a therapist."

His heads shot. His eyes were crazed with horror.

"I'm fine, Mycroft!" He insisted.

The desperation in his voice said otherwise.

"You're fine?" Mycroft asked, incredulous. "Yes, Sherlock, you're so fine that you haven't slept through the night since you arrived here. You wonder the flat in the middle of the night, looking for comfort-"

"I don't!"

"You don't speak," Mycroft continued, "you don't go outside. And you're trembling in fear, when it's only storming outside."

Sherlock stopped. He looked down, realizing for the first time that his entire body was shaking.

"I'm just cold," he stammered. Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Well I was fine until you got here! Christ, anyone would be disturbed if they had to suffer through your interrogations."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft warned, his voice filled with empathy. He leaned back into his armchair, and Sherlock knew there would be no way out of this. "You're not well. I don't know what you've been through. I mean, I have an idea-"

"I didn't go through anything," he said. For the last year, it seemed like more lies left his mouth than truth. "I just- got spooked."

"You got so spooked that you couldn't go back home?"

Sherlock froze, trapped under Mycroft's gaze. He wrapped his arms around his knees more tightly, shielding his body from sight.

"He told me that if I left I could never come back," he admitted softly. Mycroft's eyes widened with horror, but he let him continue without interruption. "I thought if I could only get away from it, that it wouldn't matter. It _doesn't _matter."

"It matters," Mycroft protested. "It matters because he's your father, and he's not supposed to treat you like a piece of shit."

Sherlock looked up at him, stunned. Hearing a curse from Mycroft was rare. Even rarer, was Mycroft sounding like he truly cared. All this time he had the impression that Mycroft was only putting up with him, as opposed to actually caring.

Suddenly, the truth started coming out of him before he realized what he was saying.

"He just…wasn't being himself," Sherlock said, attempting to find strength in his trembling voice. "It was stupid. I shouldn't have been in his way."

"_Why do you keep sticking up for him?!"_ Mycroft exclaimed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, shifting his body so that he wasn't facing his brother.

"I don't…" he took a few deep breaths, trying to control the overwhelming anxiety. "Mycroft, mother died when I was thirteen. You were at university, and then you moved out. I was left with him. Don't you think he hated that just as much as I did?"

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft asked him slowly. He sat up straight, as though realizing something for the first time.

"He_ never_ liked me," Sherlock explained. He was shaking slightly now, and he wasn't sure why. "He didn't want to be stuck with some…teenager that no one likes."

He knew he was right when Mycroft didn't reply. In fact, his brother shifted, uncomfortable, as though he had been keeping a secret all these years.

"Sherlock, Father has problems…issues you could never understand-"

"Oh?" Sherlock shot, suddenly feeling defensive of himself. "Drinking, was that one of his problems? Or the fact that he smoked so much, the house constantly smelled like a chimney? Or his anger management issues, yes perhaps that's what you're referring to."

"I'm not saying I don't believe you!" Mycroft shot. They glared at each other for a moment, until his brother's eyes softened. "I just…Sherlock, I-"

Mycroft drew in a few shallow breaths, as though he was going through his own anxiety attack.

"I'm twenty-five years old," Mycroft began, sound so uncharacteristically uncertain of himself. "I don't know how to be a parent. I don't know how make you eat, or sleep, or go outside for fresh air. I can't even begin to know how to get you back into school in the fall. But I am your brother…I know I shouldn't have left you there."

"You didn't do anything wrong," he mumbled.

"It's hard to be around you because I blame myself," Mycroft admitted. "I want to know what he did."

"So you can feel guilty?" Sherlock snapped. "You always know how to make everything about you-"

"Stop!" Mycroft screamed, shouting so loudly his voice boomed over the thunder. Sherlock flinched. He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply- embarrassed. Mycroft's eyes widened in horror when he realized he frightened him. "You're just a kid, Sherlock, and I want to help you. Is that wrong?"

"_I don't need help!"_

He jumped up from the couch and made to turn away…until he felt a strong hand grip around his arm.

_A hand reached toward him._

"Get off me," Sherlock warned.

He squirmed, but Mycroft only gripped his arm tighter.

"Do you think he was all angels and saints around me and Mother?" Mycroft asked, his voice breaking. "Didn't you ever wonder why I was so desperate to get away?"

As he met his brother's eyes, Sherlock forgot about the hand gripping his arm. He forgot about the storm, about the nightmares. He realized at that moment what Mycroft was getting at. Why Mycroft was so concerned. Sherlock had to take his eyes away, unable to face what his brother was telling him. At last Mycroft let go of him, but he didn't run.

"He was pretty bad," Mycroft whispered, "but never so bad that I ran away. Never so bad that I couldn't talk to anyone, that I stopped living."

"I haven't stopped living," Sherlock protested. His words were hardly audible over the rain. "I'm just…"

_Stuck. Confused. Regretting everything._

Eighteen.

Too young to have to deal with all this.

"It's one in the morning," Sherlock mumbled, ignoring his rambling. "Please…just let me go to bed."

"Why?" Mycroft challenged. "God knows you're not sleeping."

"I just want to go," he said, stating each word carefully, to keep his cool.

Mycroft stared at him, studying him one last time. Sherlock wasn't sure what he saw, but something made his brother relax.

"Fine," Mycroft said with a nod. "Right. It's one in the morning. I had a terrible day. So yeah, sleep sounds good right about now."

The grip on his arm loosened, and Mycroft stepped back. The air in the room became thinner. Letting out a sigh of relief he turned away, wrapping his arms around himself as he began to wonder down the corridor.

But he realized Mycroft hadn't moved. His eyes fluttered toward his brother, who still lingered in the same spot. Mycroft's hands were planted against the wall, as though he were trying to not fall over. Something about seeing his brother so vulnerable, so desperate, made him want to admit everything.

"The night I ran away he was drunk," Sherlock announced, his voice just an echo in the dark room. Mycroft didn't move as he spoke. The tension between them was so stiff that even the lightning strikes went unnoticed. "Worse than usual. He was upset. Over mum, his job…everything. I tried to sneak out. I just wanted to get away. He caught me. He thought I was sneaking out because of drugs, and…" He winced, closing his eyes, as the memories came rushing back. He didn't even realize he hadn't fully told his story when he continued: "Afterward he…he tried to choke me. He did, I mean…I couldn't breathe, and I-"

Slowly, Mycroft turned towards him, his eyes dark and pained. The fact that Mycroft still wasn't saying anything only made him more nervous. He trembled with anxiety as he continued:

"I don't think he wanted to kill me," Sherlock admitted, "but he…he just wasn't himself. He was just…too strong."

When his brother took a step closer to him, his breath became caught in his throat. He broke out into a cold sweat as he admitted:

"I just panicked. I shouldn't have. I should have stayed. I should have tried to help him get better-"

He was stunned when his breathing was cut off and his words were silenced as Mycroft did something he hadn't done for a long time.

He hugged him.

Sherlock stood, frozen in place, arms dangling awkwardly by his side, as his brother threw his arms around his neck. His eyes dashed around the room, hoping for someone to pop up and offer him an explanation. Instead his brother cradled his head in his hands, as though he were an infant.

"You can stay as long as you want," Mycroft whispered.

He was too in shock to reply. Something had to be wrong.

That's when he noticed the smell.

"Are you _drunk_?" Sherlock shot.

Mycroft snorted.

"A bit."

At last Sherlock was able to push him away. Mycroft stumbled back a bit, his arms swinging at his sides until Sherlock caught them, steadying him.

"You smell like whiskey," he said. "Why the bloody hell are you drinking _whiskey_?"

Mycroft simply shrugged. Sherlock let out a small laugh.

"That bad of a day, huh?" He asked.

He almost felt bad for Mycroft when he didn't reply. Mycroft tried to step forward, but he nearly tripped on his own feet.

"Yeah…you should sit down," Sherlock said, ushering him back toward the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked.

He wasn't sure why his brother's words were suddenly so slurred, but the exhaustion ridden in his eyes gave him a clue.

"What?" Sherlock sighed.

"Are you angry at me?"

Sherlock held his head in his hand. Mycroft settled into the sofa, kicking off his shoes before Sherlock could point out that _he_ sat there first.

"No," he finally mumbled, throwing the blanket at him. "You won't remember being this nice in the morning."

With another sigh he turned to retreat to his bedroom, but an arm landed carefully on his wrist.

"Sherlock," Mycroft announced again. He stopped, but didn't reply. "When you were four years old, you were terrified of storms. Mummy used to have to sleep in your room with you."

His cheeks turned red-hot with embarrassment.

"That's not true!"

"It is!" Mycroft protested. "You would always pound on their door, absolutely horrified. She always comforted you when it was storming."

And suddenly, he remembered. Not being four, of course, but at other ages. Other storms. His mother's voice- his eyes closed. He hadn't been able to hear her voice in so long.

"That's why you're afraid of storms," Mycroft whispered. "She's not here."

Sherlock closed his eyes more tightly. Why did Mycroft always have to be right?

"That's not true," he insisted.

He tossed his brother's hand to the side and stormed out of the room. When he reached the corridor he paused, lingering there before flipping the light switch. He turned back to the sitting room, where Mycroft was already drifting toward sleep. Mycroft looked so _young_, and Sherlock remembered what he said about only being twenty-five years old.

They were both too young to have to go through this.

But somehow, for the first time in his life, he felt like he and his brother reached an understanding.

Surely, _surely_ things could only improve between them from here.

Little did he know how wrong he was.


	8. Must Love Dogs

Author's Note: I really have no idea where this came from. I just really wanted to write something about Mycroft taking care of a dog. And...here you go.

* * *

"Mycroft, why do we have a dog?" Sherlock finally asked.

Early that morning, he came downstairs to find his brother's eyes locked with those of a German Shepherd. The dog hadn't made a sound all morning, and neither did Mycroft. Now he sat with his brother on the sofa, staring at the dog, as though expecting him to explain. The dog simply blinked.

"_Because_," Mycroft shot dryly. He shifted uncomfortably next to him, but did not continue.

"I wanted a dog when I was five, but I couldn't because _Mycroft_ was afraid of them."

Mycroft swallowed, suddenly looking much paler than before. Sherlock frowned.

"Wait, you're still afraid of them," he realized.

His brother was sitting on his hands now, as though to keep them from shaking. Mycroft's eyes widened when the dog suddenly licked his lips, though the Shepherd remained still.

"Why do we have a dog?" Sherlock asked again, slowly, nervously.

He almost didn't want to know.

"Because _he_ has one."

And suddenly, everything made sense. He couldn't help but to laugh, which earned him a glare from Mycroft.

"That's still going on?" Sherlock said. "Hasn't he gotten bored of you yet?"

"Not helping!" Mycroft whined. "He has a German Shepherd, and he practically treats it like it's his kid. It's disgusting. So far I've managed to not cross paths with it, but now it's become a bit inevitable."

Sherlock squirmed, not liking the implications of that statement.

"So you thought you'd get your own dog to learn how to overcome your fears," Sherlock said, "that's adorable, Mye."

Mycroft's cheeks turned a dark shade of crimson. For the first time that morning he got to his feet. He leapt up as though it were a spontaneous decision he had to psych himself up to make.

"The dog hates me," Mycroft groaned.

Sherlock laughed again as he reached out, scratching the dog beneath his chin with no fear.

"Does the dog have a name?"

"I'm pretty sure his name is Sam," Mycroft replied coolly, "I stole him from the old lady a few flats over."

He smirked.

"I'm impressed. Mycroft has a dark side."

"I _do_ work for the British government," Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock studied the dog for a moment and realized that Sam looked just as miserable as Mycroft felt.

"He's bored, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Take him for a walk or something."

Mycroft gazed at the dog thoughtfully, as though he never in a million years would have thought of that. Still, he replied:

"I don't want to walk him."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No wonder dogs hate you." He grabbed the leash resting on the floor, and Sam immediately seemed to perk up. "Come on, it won't be that bad."

His brother let out a dramatic sigh and followed him reluctantly out the door.

"You're being a child," Sherlock said, finding it hard to believe _he_ was the one to be saying this. "If you hate dogs so much, why didn't you just say so?"

"I never said otherwise!" Mycroft protested. "I think he just expected it of me and, well-"

"You didn't want to disappoint."

As they rounded the corner the dog picked up the pace; he was practically running to keep up with him. It was quiet between them for a moment. The dog stopped to sniff a take-a-way bag that had just missed the restaurant trash bin. While Sherlock was willing to wait, Mycroft bounced from one foot to another, looking around anxiously.

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock said, "we've got to figure out this fear of dogs."

"I'm not afraid of them!" Mycroft exclaimed. "Like I said- they don't like me."

"_Because_ you're afraid of them," Sherlock pointed out. "Or at least the dog thinks so."

Mycroft looked up at him, eyes wide with realization.

"You think so?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged.

"You're…" Sherlock stopped, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He still wasn't sure what to make of this relationship Mycroft was in, "this guy's dog, he probably senses your fear. He's probably very protective of his owner, and he probably does not trust you."

"I have to make him trust me?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Sure."

"You have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, do you?"

"I've read a few books," he admitted. Mycroft's eyes narrowed, skeptical. "And watched a few specials on telly."

Mycroft sighed. He looked rather hopeless.

"This relationship, it must be serious," Sherlock said quietly.

Rarely- extremely rarely- did this topic come up between them. Mycroft seemed almost more unwilling and embarrassed to talk about his social life than Sherlock was. Most of the time Sherlock respected this, and remained silent.

This time, Mycroft's eyes fell to his shoes as they walked. He looked like he was being tortured by the debate of telling the truth and shutting him out. His brother wrapped his arms around his chest and admitted:

"I don't know where this is going." He sighed. He looked ill. "I don't know what I'm doing half the time. You're right, I don't know why he hasn't gotten tired of me. But my job is just awful right now, and he's-"

Mycroft stopped, as though suddenly realizing he shouldn't continue. Which of course only made Sherlock more curious.

"_He's…" _

"A banker," Mycroft admitted. Sherlock snorted. "It's not funny."

"It's kind of funny," Sherlock said. "You two are probably just too rich to know what to do with each other."

Once again Mycroft reddened with embarrassment. Mycroft talked about his money even less than his relationship. It was no secret that his job paid well, _extremely_ well, and Sherlock tried to not be envious. They continued to walk on in silence. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Sam.

"You should meet him."

Sherlock's eye shot up to meet his brother's in horror.

"I can't," he stammered.

_Surely_ Mycroft wasn't serious. But when his brother only stared at him, stunned at his answer, Sherlock only felt guilty.

"Mycroft…" he groaned, helplessly.

"I was worried about meeting his dog because of a stupid childhood fear," Mycroft said. "You should see how worried he is about meeting you."

Now he felt really guilty. He was beginning to understand Mycroft's point.

"What if I don't want to be a part of this?" He said, full of shame, but feeling even more overwhelmed by fear.

"Sorry," Mycroft said suddenly. "I shouldn't have…I know this arrangement is just temporary. I know you don't really want to be a part of my life."

"That's not fair, Mycroft."

"I just don't understand what's going on," Mycroft continued. "Not with you, not with him. Christ, no wonder I'm so bloody dedicated to my job, it's the only thing that makes sense anymore."

"Mycroft…" Sherlock hesitated. How could he make his brother understand why he liked living in isolation? Why he was physically incapable of having friends? "People don't like me."

"And I don't like dogs."

"He'll think I'm weird," he protested. "He'll think I'm_ really_ weird."

"He _already_ thinks you're weird."

Sherlock's eyes widened in terror.

"How much did you tell him?" He exclaimed.

Mycroft shrugged.

"Enough."

"Yeah, well don't talk to your _mates_ about me," Sherlock shot.

He ignored how hurt Mycroft looked at the comment as he stormed toward the street corner and prepared to cross. Sherlock stumbled to a stop when Sam suddenly halt. The dog looked between them, as though proving a point.

"He thinks you're acting ridiculous," Mycroft muttered.

"He thinks _you're_ acting ridiculous!"

Sam just sat on the ground, refusing to go any further. Mycroft frowned.

"He's afraid to go any further," his brother realized. "I don't think he's ever gone passed this street. She _is_ a little old lady. She doesn't get around much."

Sherlock ignored him, staring down his brother instead. Sam rested his head on the ground, which earned them all odd looks from passerby.

"Sherlock, I think you're afraid of moving forward," Mycroft announced.

"When did this become about me?!"

"Because I don't understand what you're doing!"

"You stole a _dog_ this morning to impress your boyfriend, and I'm the one who's confusing?"

They glared at each other, both crossing their arms in the exact same way.

"I don't know where my relationship is going because I don't know where my life is going," Mycroft finally admitted. Sherlock continued to stare at him, stunned by his honesty. "Until I figure that out…I can't move forward."

"I'm in your way, then?" Sherlock said quietly.

Mycroft's eyes softened with sympathy, and Sherlock looked away, embarrassed to be making such a scene.

"That's not what I meant."

"It is," Sherlock said, "it's not your fault. You're stuck with me."

His brother's eyes closed as he let out another dramatic sigh.

"Stop it, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "We've been over this. Look…let's just go back to the flat, alright? Mrs. Henderson is probably worried about her dog."

Sherlock kicked at the ground. Of course Mycroft would just give up and not want to face the facts. His brother sighed and turned to the dog, who continued to stare at them. At Mycroft, in particular.

"You're not afraid of dogs," Sherlock suddenly realized. Mycroft looked up at him in surprise. "You just saw the dog, and how much it means to him, and you're afraid of that. It has nothing to do with the dog. It's about…finding your place."

He felt incredibly pathetic for saying such as thing. Mycroft seemed even more in shock than he was.

"Wow," Mycroft muttered. "That's…thoughtful, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. He suddenly really wanted to be back within the safety of the flat.

"You don't have to meet him," Mycroft offered. "We'll see how it goes with the…dog thing…first. I suppose introducing him to my brother would be a bit odd."

"A bit, yeah."

Sherlock gave the dog leash a tug, and Sam finally jumped up.

"Why do dogs like you?" Mycroft asked.

He shrugged, though deep down, he knew why. Dogs were quiet, loyal, and not judgmental. Everything he always looked for in someone else- and never found. Everything he always needed.

"Maybe I'll offer to look after him some for Mrs. Henderson," he said, thinking out loud. "She can't get around much."

Mycroft nodded.

"She'd probably like that."

"Mycroft?"

"Yeah?"

Sherlock looked at the ground, wondering if he truly believed what he was about to offer.

"If he comes over for dinner, I _might_ consider eating with you."

Mycroft grinned.

"No need to rush into things," his brother teased.

Sherlock breathed out a sigh of relief. The more he thought about it, the more painful that idea sounded.

"Don't worry," Mycroft offered, "it's the thought that counts."


	9. New Year's 1998

Author's Note: Happy New Year everyone! Here's a treat to celebrate the start of a new year.

* * *

The boom of fireworks drowned out the city life beneath him. He stood on the balcony of Mycroft's new flat, ten stories up in the air. An array of purple, pink, and gold lights rang in the New Year. All evening Sherlock had watched as a sea of people made their way into the center of London. The flat behind him was an empty and dark contrast to the electric energy in front of him, but Sherlock never moved. Arms thrown over the patio rail, he breathed slowly in and out, still adjusting to the taste of cigarette smoke. And he watched.

"Taking up smoking again, I see."

Sherlock jumped, nearly letting the lit cigarette tumble out of his fingers and over the patio. He stared at Mycroft, too startled and embarrassed to make excuses.

Mycroft only smirked.

"You don't have to be sneaky about it. Just don't get the smell in the bloody sofa, and don't complain to me when you get lung cancer in twenty years."

Letting out a nervous laugh, Sherlock replied:

"Twenty years is a long way away."

Suddenly Mycroft's darkened. He breathed out a long sigh as he shifted into a spot next to Sherlock. They both watched the fireworks display for a moment, before Mycroft whispered:

"Not really."

Without giving his brother a break, he shot:

"You were supposed to be back a week ago."

Mycroft turned to him, surprised at the sudden accusation. Sherlock hesitated, realizing how desperate he sounded. But to say that he felt uncomfortable staying in Mycroft's flat by himself was an understatement. To say he felt unsafe staying there by himself was a truth he would never admit.

Then he noticed the faded bruises lining Mycroft's cheekbones.

"I got held up," Mycroft replied dryly.

He had a feeling his brother wasn't exaggerating.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock offered quietly. "Are you okay?"

Mycroft nodded as his eyes drifted back toward the London skyline.

"How's the new flat?" Mycroft asked. "You've been here more than me."

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's nice," he said, "you know…floors, ceilings, windows. It works."

Mycroft stared at him.

"Do you have any idea how much I pay per month for this place?" Mycroft said. Sherlock didn't bother replying. "You'd be just as happy staying in a place over a shop somewhere, wouldn't you?"

"I live a simple life."

As Mycroft laughed the smallest of smiles appeared on his face, which only made him appear more exhausted.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," Mycroft said.

He sounded so sincere that Sherlock felt more helpless than ever.

"It's fine," he lied.

There was another pause as Mycroft picked at a new scar etched into the skin between his right thumb and index finger. Sherlock wanted to ask but knew he couldn't.

"1998," Mycroft finally said. "Almost hard to believe, isn't it?"

He offered a weak nod, though he didn't agree. 1997 was a long and painful year. After the Christmas Day row between Mycroft and his father, he was stuck living at home again for the first few months of 1997. When Mycroft finally came to his rescue that summer things hadn't changed with his job, and he still spent most of the time abroad. Sherlock felt like he spent the entire year in solitude.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and Sherlock looked up.

"It's going to be a better year," Mycroft said. "I promise. I'll be doing more work in the city for now on."

It was said as something that was supposed to boost his spirits, but Sherlock only felt guiltier.

"You didn't have to do that!"

"Oh, it's not for you," Mycroft smirked.

He straightened up, sticking his chest out slightly like he did whenever he was bragging about something.

"What, another promotion?" Sherlock said, mouth agape. "At this rate you'll be the bloody prime minister by next fall."

"It's not really a promotion," Mycroft admitted. "It's just a better offer that puts me out of the line of fire. You know, less likely to be shot."

"I suppose you've taken the obligatory bullet for the government?"

Mycroft paled, and he was reminded that the accident from last summer wasn't exactly a laughing matter. When his brother looked away, _embarrassed_, Sherlock considered that perhaps Mycroft wasn't as willing to take this new position as he seemed.

"It's going to be a good year," Mycroft said, echoing his previous statement in an almost desperate-sounding way.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, debating about rather or not he wanted to admit the rest of it. He had been debating it for days, which somehow only made him more anxious for Mycroft to get home.

"I was offered a job at a library," he admitted, in one breath.

Mycroft stared at him. He might as well have told him he was getting married.

"That's brilliant!" Mycroft exclaimed.

His eyes widened in surprise when a genuine smile appeared on Mycroft's face. He was finally able to breathe a little easier.

"Sorry…I just thought you might think it was a stupid idea."

"You being around actual humans and communicating with people?" Mycroft laughed. "No, it's not stupid. Just a bit amusing."

"Right, well I figured you'd laugh too."

"Sherlock, don't be like that," Mycroft pleaded. "It's a good idea, really. It's a start, at least. How did you get the job?"

Sherlock relaxed a little.

"I started reading in the café down the street," Sherlock said. "I suppose one of the administrators at the library goes there often. She said I had a good taste in books and asked if I were looking for a job. She sounded kind of desperate, so I just accepted."

"Those are _my_ books you're reading!"

Sherlock only smirked. Once again they fell silent, and he realized how miniscule this news must seem in the midst of whatever was going on in his brother's life

"It's just a stupid job," he said.

"It's not," Mycroft insisted. "Like I said, it's a start. It's something."

"Something to do," Sherlock agreed. "It's boring around here."

"No less boring than at my other place."

"The people here are too posh," Sherlock said.

"That's because it's a nice neighborhood."

"Nice is boring."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"There's no pleasing you, is there?" He said.

Sherlock grinned.

"Sherlock , listen-" as soon as Mycroft spoke up he stopped, hesitant. Sherlock turned to him. "I'm sorry about everything that's happened in the past year. I'm sorry I kicked you out. I'm sorry I left you with him again. Christ, no one can expect you to have your life figured out yet because you haven't had a chance. Shit…I could have really put you in danger."

He didn't have a heart to tell him…that he did.

"It was nothing," he whispered.

"It was _stupid_," Mycroft insisted. "This whole year I've been an ass, and look where it got me."

"A promotion and a new flat?"

"_Shot_," his brother snapped. "I could have lost everything. My whole life, and I…I dunno, is a job worth it?"

Sherlock paused, considering.

"Of course it's worth it," Sherlock replied. "Besides, what else are you going to do?"

With a shrug, Mycroft offered:

"When I was five I wanted to be an astronaut."

"I hate to break it to you, but that's not going to happen."

"You were always one to be supportive," Mycroft sighed.

"It's just statistics!" Sherlock pointed out. "You have about a better chance of becoming President of the United States."

"You have to be a U.S. citizen for that."

"I know that!"

"The point is," Mycroft interjected; Sherlock finally fell quiet. "This year really made me re-think some of the choices I made."

A new set of booms scattered through the air. Their eyes trailed up, their pupils littered with images of green and pink lights.

"Well it's not _this year_ anymore," Sherlock said. "Brand new year."

"You sound optimistic."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I think I'm ready for a change," he admitted. "I can't be a victim in this anymore. I just can't put myself through that."

Mycroft stared at him, genuinely stunned.

"Sorry," Mycroft said, "but that actually sounded quite adult of you."

Sherlock smiled, just enough of show his appreciation.

"So, this new job, when do you start?" Mycroft asked.

"Next Monday."

Mycroft turned to him, looking him up and down, taking in the same denim trousers and sweatshirt he had been wearing for months.

"You're not wearing that, are you?"

Sherlock looked down at what he was wearing, puzzled by the question.

"I'll help you find some new clothes," Mycroft offered. "And I suppose I should teach you how to, you know, talk to people."

He stared at Mycroft, bemused.

"It's a library, Mycroft, not a job at Harrods. I'm pretty sure they just need someone to put books back on the shelves."

"Right," Mycroft said, placing a hand on his shoulder, "sorry, I'm just a little choked up at the idea that my little brother's growing up."

Sherlock glared at him and took a whiff of the smell that suddenly hit him.

"You're drunk," he shot. "Nothing new, of course. You only talk when you're drunk."

"There really wasn't much else to do at the Berlin airport."

He stopped, and they both looked at each other.

"You've been in Germany this whole time?" Sherlock asked.

"I was catching a connecting flight."

"You're lying to me!" Sherlock whined. "Seriously, Mycroft who am I going to tell?"

Letting out a dramatic sigh, Mycroft closed his eyes briefly.

"Fine," he said, "yes, I've been in Germany. They've been trying to relocate me there."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"I told them no," he finished.

Mycroft looked down, uncomfortable.

"So that's why you're back in London?" Sherlock said. "You didn't tell them 'no' for me, did you?"

His brother's arm wrapped around his shoulder. Sherlock shrugged him away.

"You reek of whiskey," he said, "it's disgusting."

"You reek of cigarettes."

"Mycroft!"

Their eyes met, and he refused to even blink until Mycroft told him the truth.

"I have my whole life to be promoted," Mycroft said quietly. "Truth is, I'm just as confused now as I was a year and a half ago. After what happened with Father I felt like I had a clean slate, like I could do anything. I have to admit, that felt good. But it didn't last."

"You can't hold yourself back because of me," Sherlock pleaded.

"And you can't afford a London flat on a library worker's wage," Mycroft said. "Just drop it, okay? Like I said: this year will be better."

Far below them a group of people broke into a drunken rendition of "Auld Lang Syne". A shiver ripped through him suddenly, reminding him of how long he had been outside. He would only admit to himself that he felt safer standing in the cold next to his brother, than he had in weeks. He wasn't sure when _safety _became a concern, but after all that unfolded in the past year he went from being apathetic toward what was happening to him to wanting to end it, once and for all. It was a brand new year, and he didn't want any setbacks like last year.

Mycroft turned to him and began studying him intently enough to make him uncomfortable.

"The same offer stands," Mycroft said. "You can stay as long as you'd like. After all, it helps to have someone here to water the plants when you're gone."

"Right," Sherlock snorted.

He was beginning to have the feeling that Mycroft simply liked having the company. Even though he wasn't around much, when he was there it was clear his brother didn't have much going on in his life outside of work. He turned toward his brother, meeting his eyes.

"Thanks," Sherlock whispered. "For everything. Just…don't blame yourself for any of it."

Mycroft looked like he didn't know if he should be ill or grateful.

"Let's just agree to move on, shall we?" Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. Drawing in a deep breath, he took one final look at the burst of light in the sky before the fireworks display ended. It was official.

Brand new year.

"Agreed."

* * *

Author's Note: So again with the jumping forward in time a bit. This chapter gave you lots of hints at stuff that happens...stuff that will be explained in different parts of the story. Hope you enjoyed it! Thank you all for being such wonderful readers and reviewers last year, and I hope you continue to stick with this story throughout 2013!


	10. Stuck

Warnings: Drug withdrawal. References to drug use._  
_

* * *

_May 1996_

His raspy breathing turned into deep gasps for air as he tried to calm down. Sherlock could feel the cool air through the door as he rested his head against it. Eyes closed, he relished the darkness flourishing in his mind. Lately, it was the only thing he could cling to- his only escape. His feet were itching to hit the pavement, but he felt frozen in time. His body felt heavier than normal. Exhaustion weighed down on him so strongly he felt like he might collapse.

He couldn't move.

_Stuck._

"Sherlock?"

Palms clinging to the door, Sherlock fought to stand in place. The light to the main corridor flickered on, and he winced as the piercing aura met his closed eyelids.

"It's two in the morning," Mycroft announced. "Are you really going out?"

Drawing in a shaky breath, Sherlock admitted:

"I can't."

"Can't what?"

Mycroft took a step toward him, and he tensed up.

"Can't move," Sherlock whispered, "can't think. Can't do anything. Can't breathe."

"Can't breathe?" Mycroft repeated.

The panic rising in his brother's voice somehow made the anxiety worse. He shook a little; his heart raced.

"Why can't I-"

_Get passed this?_

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

Mycroft spoke quietly, carefully, as to not spook him. But he couldn't be spooked. He was far too afraid for the fear to get any worse.

He wanted to admit everything right then. He wanted to tell Mycroft about the withdrawal, about how unbelievably _tired_ he was. About how his mind wouldn't stop racing until he forced himself to fade away. About how he woke up each morning fearing he was having a heart attack because of how desperately his heart pounded.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and he gasped in surprise.

"Why don't you sit down?" Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock nodded, but he couldn't obey. He couldn't get his feet to move. Instead he slid, collapsing to the floor, where he rested his head against the door.

"Jesus you're pale!" Mycroft hissed as he sat down beside him.

His brother didn't argue the fact that they were on the floor instead of the sofa. He also didn't push for answers, instead falling silent- his way of letting Sherlock take control of the situation. Drawing in a final, deep, breath, he thought he might be able to confess what was going on.

"It won't stop! It's been over three months and still, every day, I fight." Mycroft stared at him, stunned and shaken by where this confession was going, but he let him explain. Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift toward him, pleading for his brother to understand. "I did cocaine. Nearly every night, for months. I stopped once I came here, and I thought I could handle the withdrawal. I was doing fine…but then it just started up again. I can't sleep. I can't think. I feel like I'm shaking, but I remain perfectly still. It's like…the world's spinning around me and I can't move. I can't move- I can't do anything. And every night, I want to give up. Every night I have to tell myself why I shouldn't, but it's _hard_. I _know_ why I need to move forward. But it's just…I just don't understand what's happening to me."

He stopped short, absolutely trembling now. Tears stung his eyes, which had previously been so dry and empty. He felt so incredibly helpless sitting next to his brother, who was well into a government career at age twenty-give. Who had his own flat and his own money. Who stared at the ground, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

"I think you should see someone," Mycroft admitted quietly.

"No!" Sherlock cried, hiding his head in his hands.

"It's not that I don't care, or that I don't want to listen," Mycroft explained. "It's your health. I don't know the answers, Sherlock. But I know that being clean is never a bad thing. I know it's hard. You're just so young, and your body can't take it."

Nodding, he tried to understand. He really, truthfully, wanted to. But all he heard was his brother being as stubborn as ever. Being as ashamed as ever.

"I'm just going to go-"

_To bed._

"No!" Mycroft exclaimed, grabbing his arm.

Sherlock fell to the ground. It took a moment to catch his breath, just from the effort of falling.

"You don't know this, but _I've_ been seeing someone," Mycroft said quietly.

Their eyes met again. This time, it was Mycroft asking for understanding.

"A therapist," Mycroft breathed. "Between my job and trying to be your guardian- there's a lot that I don't understand. I never like admitting that I don't know how to handle something, or that I can't, but sometimes help is worth asking for. I have to talk to someone, or I'd fall apart."

Sherlock stared at him; he couldn't help but to feel a pang of jealousy.

"You don't talk to me," he mumbled.

Mycroft let out a shallow laugh.

"I don't think they'd approve of me telling my brother about the latest international government ploys," he said. "And I don't want to scare you by admitting that I haven't the faintest idea what I'm doing."

He was startled to hear Mycroft admit this. His brother always seemed so calm and collected, no matter what was going on, but now that he thought about it, Mycroft was always _quiet_ more than anything. He could make the nightmares go away, but he couldn't help him understand them. Part of his anxiety stemmed from being afraid his brother wouldn't understand- because _of course_ Mycroft couldn't understand.

"I'm afraid," he whispered. "I'm afraid I'll turn back to the drugs, just for an escape from all of this. I have to stop myself from going out every night because it's far too easy for me to get them. It's the easy way out, but I don't _want_ it."

Mycroft nodded as he stared at the empty space in front of them, contemplating.

"And I'm afraid you'll stop talking," his brother admitted. "Christ, you have no idea how relieved I am whenever you talk. Whenever I can get some kind of sign, some kind of hint, about what's going on. You've got to talk to me to make this work. But if you're still having withdrawals, cravings, whatever- you need the right kind of help."

His eyes widened. He swallowed, hoping to not sound as helpless as he stated:

"I'm not going to rehab."

A wave of relief washed over him as Mycroft shook his head.

"I'm not going to send you to rehab," his brother promised. "As long as you don't start using again, I swear I won't. But I want to make sure you're okay. Like I said, you're so young…I can't even imagine what this has been doing to you, both physically and mentally."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock sank back down the doorway as he admitted:

"I'm_ tired_. I'm exhausted. I'm so exhausted that it hurts. It's like every movement may be my last, and when I try to think, when I try to comprehend it all, it's like I'm just frozen in time."

"I wish you told me this before," Mycroft confessed. "The guy I talked to, he's only available for government workers, but I can see if he can recommend someone-"

"I don't want to talk to a therapist. Please, Mycroft- I just…I just want to sleep."

He felt as he could fall into a dreamless rest for years, just at the thought of sleep. When he closed his eyes they stung, desperate for relief.

"I just want these feelings to go away," he continued. "I _don't_ want to use again, but it's like my body won't accept that."

Mycroft nodded, though his brother looked slightly terrified, as though he simply didn't know what to do with this information. Sherlock felt guilty, realizing then why Mycroft was pushing so much toward therapy. He truly didn't know what to do, because _he _was so young. No one prepared his brother for this. He wanted to accept this, but it was all he could do to let Mycroft in and trust him. The thought of telling all of this to a stranger made him feel ill.

"So it's like this every day?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock nodded.

"Just about," he admitted. "I don't feel sick, just…_down_."

"Sherlock, if you're depressed-"

"I'm not!"

"It's not something you can help-"

"I'm not depressed!" He insisted. He let out a dramatic sigh. "Why can't anyone understand this?"

"Because I've never tried drugs a day in my life," Mycroft said. Sherlock stared at him, honestly surprised. He swallowed nervously, not wanting to admit how much of a coward this made him feel like. "So no, I don't know. But I know that if you ever come home with those marks on your arms again…if you continue to abuse yourself like this-"

"I know, you'll kick me out."

Mycroft's eyes shot toward him.

"You'll throw your life away," his brother said. "You're eighteen, stop acting like you're finished. You've made some mistakes, some big ones. It'll take time to accept that. Hell, it could take years. If you're not going to talk to a professional- which I'm going to continue to emphasize that you should- at least keep talking. You scare me, Sherlock. You truly frighten me sometimes, but I'm sure I'm not nearly as afraid as you are right now. Three months ago you came to me for help, and I'm going to see you through it. But don't go wondering about at night because you'll find an easy way out."

Sherlock remained silent, considering everything. At last the fog seemed to be fading away, and the world around him didn't feel so claustrophobic. He could breathe a little more easily, and his heart was a bit calmer.

"You're getting some of your colour back," Mycroft noted. Suddenly a cold, clammy, hand landed on his wrist. "But you're freezing. How about some tea?"

He shook his head.

"No thanks."

Mycroft let out a hoarse laugh.

"Saying no to tea?" He said. "You must be depressed."

Just to show him, Sherlock slapped his brother's shoulder. Mycroft smiled, ever so slightly, and Sherlock couldn't help but to mirror him.

"God, how many of these bloody heart-to-hearts am I going to have to sit through?" Sherlock muttered.

His brother's grin widened.

"As many as it takes."


	11. Thief

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath as he looked around the room. Adrenaline pumped through his veins from climbing the wall against the side of the house and jumping through the upstairs window. He was now standing in his old bedroom for the first time in over a year. What used to be his safe haven, his retreat from his father's screaming and Mycroft's teasing, now felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He shivered; the room was damp and cool from lack of occupancy.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he had already wasted too much time. He timed this out too perfectly to give up now.

In a whirlwind of movement he made his way around the room, mentally checking off his list of things to grab. A few books, a notebook, and some sheet music made its way into his rucksack. His eyes trailed around the room, looking for his final prize-

_There._

Right where he left it.

His violin.

Sherlock approached it carefully, terrified it would vanish from thin air if he got too close. It had been so long since he last played it that he wondered if his fingers would still remember the notes, if the strings still worked. Ever so gently, he picked the instrument up from the stand that held it and plucked a few strings.

He grinned.

There were a few songs he wanted to play, right off the bat, but he knew he couldn't mess around. Instead he grabbed the case, a few extra strings, and stuffed everything carefully into the sack.

He held his breath as he took one last look around the room, knowing it might be the last time he ever saw the place. As his eyes fell on the bed, where he spent so many nights cowering in shame, in fear even, and on the door worn from pounding fists and violent door slams, he knew there could be no regrets.

That was, until his eyes fell on the bookshelf and on the first row of books. There were a few that his mother placed there long ago, but he never bothered to look at them until now. It was simply a set up for a young child, something that went unnoticed as he grew older and tried to forget his past. He knew he shouldn't take any of them now- he was already being risky enough as it was. But he couldn't help but to pick up the first book: a worn copy of _Tom Sawyer_. He opened to the cover and frowned, noting the comment that it was given to his mother from someone named Ana who lived in Florida. He hadn't the faintest idea who that could be. Sherlock thumbed through the book gently, only stopping when something fell to his feet.

Reaching down, he picked up a faded photograph of a young boy and a woman with strawberry blonde hair. A lump fell in his throat as he realized: _me and mum_. It had been years since he last saw a picture of him as a child, let alone one with his mother. Family photos seemed to be unheard of past the time he was born, as if he were some regret his parents didn't want to be reminded of.

Suddenly his eyes were burning with moisture and he swiped at them, embarrassed to realize how upset the photo made him. How much he longed for his childhood…for the times when everything was actually okay. Then he looked up and gazed around the empty room. He remembered how hard he worked to get away from this place, and he knew he couldn't linger any longer.

Placing the photo carefully in the book and the book in his rucksack, Sherlock turned, and bolted.

* * *

Author's Note: If there's any prompts anyone would like to suggest for this, let me know! I welcome them! Even though this is following a storyline these can still be stand-alone.


	12. What Mycroft Does

Warning: references to torture

* * *

Sherlock yawned as he stumbled into the kitchen. Reaching for the tea pot, he threw a quick glance to the clock. He stomach sank when it read 8 PM, which meant-

"What are you doing?"

He groaned.

"Mycroft," he muttered.

"Yeah, that's still my name," his brother shot. He heard a newspaper close as Mycroft got up from the table. "What are you doing home? Your shift at the library doesn't end until 9."

Sherlock glared at the coffee pot, trying to think of a reason to bail. As though he read his mind, Mycroft shifted so that he stood in front of the doorway.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft warned.

Letting out a long sigh, Sherlock admitted:

"I'm not there because I quit."

He could see Mycroft's incredulous stare through the teapot.

"So you just came home and slept all day?" Mycroft shot. "Sherlock, it was only your first day!" He must have noticed him tense, because suddenly Mycroft sighed and his voice softened. "What happened?"

Sherlock swirled around and shrugged.

"It was boring."

"Boring?! You're re-stocking books for a living! That's the easiest job I can think of!"

"Exactly!" Sherlock shot. "There's no challenge."

"If you need a challenge you should have stayed in university!" Mycroft cried.

Sherlock froze. He knew Mycroft wouldn't be happy with his decision, but he was sure that even his brother could understand why he wouldn't be happy with such a job. He had trusted Mycroft would understand.

"Right," Sherlock mumbled. "Well of course you wouldn't understand."

He attempted to shove past his brother, but Mycroft grabbed his arm. Looking away, Sherlock settled back against the wall, arms wrapped around himself.

"I just don't see the point," he admitted. "It's barely any money, the people were just _stupid_, and the students were idiots."

"Yeah, but you knew that going in," Mycroft pointed out. "What's really wrong?"

At last his eyes trailed to his brother. He hesitated; he always hated having to resort to these cheesy confessions. He knew it didn't help in getting Mycroft to take him seriously.

"Is that what I'm going to do with my life?" He asked quietly. "Organize shelves?"

Mycroft stared at him, his eyes softening with sympathy. Sherlock squirmed, feeling much too young at the moment.

"Do you regret leaving university?" Mycroft asked, leaning against the doorway.

Sherlock shrugged and let out a sigh.

"I didn't really leave," he said. "And I didn't like it. And I don't know what I want to do with my life, but…I know I can do more than this."

Mycroft nodded.

"I've been trying to tell you that."

"Yeah," Sherlock whispered. "It was just pointless, that was all."

"Still, you just can't quit on your first day," Mycroft said. "It makes you look bad."

"I didn't even finish filling out all the paperwork," Sherlock said.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Forget about getting into that university."

Sherlock thought about what he said, about regretting school. Maybe he had been looking at this all around. He was confiding himself to one city, staying stationary in a place that wasn't doing him any good. He was beginning to understand why Mycroft did so much work abroad, why he was always trying to get away.

"Yeah, well maybe I don't want to go to school in London," he replied.

His brother stared at him- he actually looked pleased.

"Really?" Mycroft said. Sherlock shrugged. "You could run with that, you know. It might not be a bad idea to start over somewhere new."

Sherlock shook his head. Of course Mycroft would take him too seriously.

"Yeah, well don't get too excited," he said, "I can't get back into school."

"Right," Mycroft said, "staying here and sleeping all day sounds like a much better life choice."

Sherlock shrugged and smirked.

"Sounds good to me."

Mycroft punched him in the shoulder and then began to make two cups of tea.

"Sherlock. Do you have any idea what I do for a living?"

He examined his brother's hands as he made the tea, studying the new scars on his knuckles.

"Judging by the state of your hands, it involves being trained in hand-to-hand combat."

Mycroft glanced at him, impressed.

"Close," he said. "You promise not to share any of this?"

He sat two mugs of tea down on the table. Sherlock joined him there, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Part of him wasn't sure he wanted to know the secret behind Mycroft's scars.

"Who am I going to tell?" He pointed out quietly as he wrapped his hands around the mug.

Mycroft sat across from him, keeping quiet for a moment as he contemplated his story. After taking a sip of tea, he began:

"There are two parts to my job. Part of it is overseas missions, secret service type stuff. Ambassadors and assassin attempts, that sort of thing."

Sherlock's eyes widened, shocked Mycroft could talk about such a thing so lightly. Something flickered in Mycroft's eyes; Sherlock noted how he was refusing to look at him. He was afraid, he realized, to admit who he really was.

"The other part is interrogating suspects of interests."

His breath hitched as he stared at his brother, hands glued to the mug. He couldn't move, couldn't think.

"You torture people," he realized quietly.

Mycroft didn't reply. He didn't move. He didn't blink.

"I'm willing to do more than most," he finally admitted. "That's why I've been able to move up so quickly. No matter how much they beg for me to understand or the second chances they ask for, I have to get the truth out of them because _it's my job_. And I'll do whatever it takes." Mycroft drew in a deep breath; his eyes were actually glistening, as though it were too much for him. Sherlock simply stared at him wide-eyed, took in shock to speak or even breathe. "But then I have to go home, and I have to be able to sleep. I have to be able to look at you and…justify everything I do. Because sometimes they _are_ innocent. Sometimes they're just at the wrong place at the wrong time, sometimes they were never given a chance themselves. At work, that's not my problem. But once I leave…I look around, and I really have to wonder what it is I've chosen to do with my life."

His brother stopped short, his voice breaking. Sherlock actually felt bad for him. He felt so terrible, in fact, he almost felt sick. Mycroft reached out, almost as though he wanted to grab his hand, but he stopped.

"Sherlock, I give you so many chances because I want you to do well," he continued quietly. "Because I need to do something good, so that I don't have to justify everything I do. I've made these choices in my life, and I know I can live with them, because I like being on top. We live in a world that's so messed up that you can just never know. I like being on the winning side. And it's hard for me to go out there and see all this terror and come back here where you can do so much and…"

He trailed off, again as though it was all too much, and Sherlock understood what he was getting at.

"Are you trying to make me feel bad, then?" Sherlock whispered. They both stared intently at their tea mugs, determined to avoid each other. "I'm sorry that I didn't know what you deal with every day, but maybe it's time for you to realize that it can be just as bad _here_ as the rest of the world."

Mycroft paled, his eyes darkened, and his fists clenched, out of habit. Sherlock stiffened, shifting uncomfortably in his seat- he must have triggered whatever anger it was Mycroft fought so hard to keep down.

"Don't you realize that's why I work so hard to protect it?" Mycroft stated, voice low.

His blood ran cold as a lump developed in his throat. He didn't want to push the subject; obviously it was too personal for Mycroft. But that didn't stop him from being curious.

"So you…have to? No matter what?" He asked.

Mycroft swallowed, straightening up a little. When he spoke again his voice was a lighter, as though this were easier for him to talk about.

"Pretty much," his brother admitted. The comment only made Sherlock feel worse. Here he was, complaining about working in a _library_. "But it won't be this way forever. I'm moving up fast. Soon I won't have to worry about the legwork."

Sherlock snorted.

"What, you'll hire minions to do that for you?"

"Careful what you wish for," Mycroft smirked. "Just imagine it: one day I'll be rich enough to hire a whole team of people to keep an eye on you."

For the first time their eyes met, his widened in horror.

"You wouldn't!"

Mycroft laughed. He sat his mug of tea down as he stood up and walked toward the fridge.

"Honestly, Sherlock," he said as he reached in and pulled out some lettuce. "I'm not _that_ cruel."


	13. Jail Bail I

Warning: discussions of drug use

* * *

_September 1996_

Sherlock stirred at the sound of approaching footsteps. He was perched against the wall of the jail cell, arms wrapped around his knees in attempts to keep warm. Blinking, he adjusted his eyes to the light as the door to the holding rooms opened.

He froze when he saw it was his brother who accompanied the officer.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade said as they approached- he could recognize it as a warning. "Your brother's here."

The officer's eyes narrowed in an apologetic way as he opened the cell door. Mycroft remained silent as he stared down at him, judging his every move as Sherlock scurried to his feet. He wanted to slip away without being forced to say anything to the officer, but Lestrade caught him by the arm before he got the chance.

"Are you going to be okay?" Lestrade asked.

He offered a single nod before following Mycroft out. As his brother led him back through the precinct, he was grateful to realize most of the staff seemed to not notice who he was. Mycroft had a taxi waiting for them when they reached the parking lot. Sherlock couldn't help but to realize the personal vehicles of all the staff had changed over: a change of shift, which indicated it was nearly sunrise.

"What, no government sedan?" Sherlock smirked.

He said it for the sake of comic relief; the tension between them could have been sliced with safety scissors. Instead of laughing, Mycroft swirled around and grabbed his arm.

"Hey-" Sherlock gasped.

When he attempted to step away, Mycroft strengthened his grip. Sherlock winced as Mycroft's fingers moved over the fresh scars ripping into his skin.

"Why, does it hurt?" Mycroft snapped. Sherlock's eyes widened when he saw the anger boiling in his brother.

Mycroft didn't wait for an answer. He jerked his arm down and forced the sleeve of his sweatshirt up.

"Mycroft-" he begged, but he was ignored.

"This is why you've been gone for the past two days?" Mycroft demanded. Looking away, he closed his eyes as pain shot up his arm. "This is why I got a call from the bloody _police_, Sherlock?"

He was shoved away as Mycroft finally let him go. Sherlock stumbled a bit, but Mycroft simply stared at him, mouth agape.

"I didn't bring a government car because I was too ashamed," the helplessness in Mycroft's voice drew his eyes back toward him. Silently, he still pleaded for sympathy, though he knew he deserved none. His own hopelessness made him feel physically sick. "And the whole way here I was thinking…I hope he's okay. What if he got hurt? What could _I _have done to stop this? But you know what…I'm tired of blaming myself."

Sherlock was disturbed to realize there were tears in his own eyes now, if not from just the pure exhaustion wearing down on him.

"You went out, you sought out your old friends, you decided to get high, and you got busted by the police!"

Running his hands through his hair his brother looked away, desperate for help that was nowhere to be found.

"What did you take?" Mycroft asked, lowering his voice now.

No doubt he was embarrassed at the thought of anyone overhearing him. Eyes glued to the concrete, Sherlock admitted:

"Cocaine."

"Anything else?"

"No."

"_Anything else?"_

"No!"

He looked up to Mycroft, pleading with him. He never wanted to admit this to his brother, but somehow Mycroft always seemed to be able to guilt the truth out of him.

"They wanted me to try heroin," he admitted, voice cracking. "I wouldn't. They started giving me a hard time so I tried to get out of there. By then the police showed up."

His brother glared at him with a fire he had never even seen before. Sherlock swallowed nervously, wondering if this is how the subjects his brother interrogated felt.

"That's fine, isn't it then?" Mycroft shot. "It was _only _cocaine. It was _only_ one night."

"It's not like that-"

"It's only your life, Sherlock!" Mycroft roared, so loudly some officers nearby stopped to look.

When his brother spotted them he calmed down, taking a few deep breaths before continuing:

"We're going to the hospital. You're going to get checked out, and then you're going to talk to someone-"

His eyes widened even more as he shook his head.

"No, please Mycroft-"

"You're going to the hospital," Mycroft reiterated, "because it's the only thing I know to do with you. Believe it or not there's no guidebook for what to do when you find your brother high on cocaine."

Sherlock stared at him, incredulous. And hurt.

"If you want to get rid of me then fine," Sherlock mumbled. He shoved passed his brother, purposefully knocking into him as he did. "You don't have to take me anywhere."

Shoving his hands into his pockets he stormed away, ignoring the fact that he had nowhere to go. His heart pounded madly, the wind ripped through his sweatshirt. When his brother grabbed his arm once again he tripped over his own feet and grabbed his head.

The world was spinning.

"I'm fine!" He snapped when Mycroft reached out to him.

His brother pulled him toward the cab.

"Hospital," Mycroft announced.

A half an hour later he sank deep into the plastic seat in the emergency room. The room was virtually empty at five in the morning, apart from a few mothers with crying kids. Arms crossed, he leaned his head back, trying to get some sleep.

"Sit up, you look ridiculous," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and ignored him.

"God you _smell_," his brother shot.

He squirmed in his seat but still refused to answer. When Mycroft didn't get the response he was looking for Mycroft let out a sigh that mimicked his own.

"Why cocaine?" He asked suddenly.

This caught Sherlock's attention.

"What?" Sherlock said.

"Why cocaine?" Mycroft said, as simply as asking why he liked a certain kind of music. "You refused the heroin, wouldn't try it. Never have tried it, as far as I know. Why cocaine? What good does it do you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"It's what they had," he lied.

He was _not_ about to explain this to his brother.

"Why them?" Mycroft asked, again just casually enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

"It's who I know," he mumbled. "The only people I know."

"The people who make you feel safe?"

He refused to answer because he was ashamed.

"Did you stay with them, when you were on the streets?" Mycroft twitched a little, the way he always did when referring to his previous living habits.

Sherlock offered stiff nod.

"It would be nice if you would, you know, give me some kind of hint when you start feeling like this," Mycroft said. Sherlock didn't reply. "It's not worth it, Sherlock. It's not worth a criminal record. It's not worth your life.

As Sherlock glanced around at the tired nurses finishing up their night shift, it hit him just how exhausted he was. He was so tired his vision danced before his eyes and his whole body felt numb. All he wanted was his own bed and to sleep so long Mycroft would forget about this.

"I don't need to be in a hospital," he mumbled, "I'm fine. You're overreacting."

Mycroft's head shot toward him as he stared at him, incredulous.

"_Overreacting?_ Sherlock, do you have any idea what cocaine actually does to your body?"

"It was once, Mycroft!"

"How do I know that?" Mycroft snapped. "How am I supposed to trust you? I can't even figure out what's going through your head."

"Whatever," he mumbled, getting to his feet.

"Sherlock-"

All eyes were on them as his brother reached for him and Sherlock pushed him away.

"This is stupid," Sherlock announced.

"Where are you going?" Mycroft called after him, sounding more desperate than angry.

He was beginning to think that his brother brought him here simply so other people could take over the situation.

"Holmes."

Sherlock turned as his name was called. A nurse was standing at the door which led to the rooms, waiting for him. She stared between him and Mycroft, waiting for something to happen.

"I got you out of jail, Sherlock, you owe me."

Sherlock looked around, catching each eye that gazed at him. They looked disgusted, he realized. Like they somehow knew.

And he realized, maybe Mycroft had a point.

"Lestrade's going to be a lot more understanding if you deal with this the right way," Mycroft said.

Sighing, he knew Mycroft was right. He remembered how petrified he was when the police cars showed up, sirens wailing and lights flashing. He never saw himself as a criminal, and he didn't want to. He still didn't even understand how this happened. It was like the night was all one long surreal dream.

"Fine," he muttered.

He walked straight past Mycroft as he stormed toward the nurse. Mycroft grabbed his arm one last time, forcing him to face him. Their eyes met, and even though Sherlock could still see the anger in them deep down, he felt guilty for how hurt his brother looked.

"It's going to be okay," Mycroft promised.

Sherlock looked away, embarrassed to be forced to face so much emotion in front of so many people. He didn't reply as he walked off, dreading what was to come. He was grateful when Mycroft stayed in the waiting room; he couldn't stand to be around him any longer.

Because the truth was, he knew he didn't deserve the sympathy.


	14. Some Nights

Dedication: When I came home from work last night I was so upset about some of the things that happened that I came up with this idea for this fic...because writing has always been my cure for sadness and anxiety. This chapter is for everyone who's ever worried that they've made a mistake so bad they're not even sure what they should do anymore.

* * *

_What do I stand for?_

_What do I stand for?_

_Most nights, I don't know anymore_

_(fun.)_

* * *

Sherlock's eyes drooped closed just as the front door slammed shut. He shot up, book and blanket tumbling to the floor as he squinted through the dim lights. The flicker of Mycroft's waistcoat hurried passed the room, and he listened carefully as his brother's footsteps scurried into the kitchen.

His eyes flashed around the room, wondering what he missed. With a sigh he got up and quietly approached the kitchen, afraid to startle Mycroft. He peered around the doorway and watched as his brother's shaky hands began to make a pot of tea. A slice of leftover cake set on the countertop beside him.

A choked sob filled the room as Mycroft drew in a deep breath, and Sherlock froze when he realized what was happening.

His brother was crying.

"Mycroft," he whispered, taking a cautious step forward.

Mycroft lifted his head but didn't turn around. Instead he raised his arm to wipe his wet face. White knuckles clung to the countertop, as though he might fall. Sherlock realized only then how disheveled Mycroft looked: his trousers were torn at the knee, his hair was a mess, he was deathly pale and his chest heaved up and down violently, like it was too tight.

"Here," he offered; he walked to the counter and picked up the teapot.

His brother's hand lay on his to stop him, and their eyes met. He held his breath as he looked into bloodshot eyes and saw just how drained Mycroft was.

"Go back to bed," Mycroft muttered. "It's late."

"I was never in bed," Sherlock replied. "I figured you would notice that and yell."

Shaking his head, Mycroft turned away and continued preparing his meal.

"What do I care, you're nineteen."

He threw the plate of dessert on the table to fiercely the cake nearly slid to the floor. Sherlock slid into the chair across from him as Mycroft sat down. Mycroft heaved a sigh as he ran a hand through his hair and tilted his neck. As the muscles popped, Sherlock noticed the blood for the first time.

"You're neck-"

"Don't worry about it."

Mycroft's hand flew to the bleeding wound- a cut from a knife just below his left ear.

"Christ, no wonder you're so pale!" Sherlock shot. He reached for a hand towel to stop the bleeding. Even he was surprised when Mycroft allowed him to tend to the wound. "Were you on the tube like this?"

"I don't ride the tube," Mycroft snorted. "Besides, I walked home."

"You walked home from Thames House at one in the morning?" Sherlock exclaimed. His eyes widened in horror. "Were you mugged?"

The faintest of smiles appeared on Mycroft's face, as though he wished it were only that bad.

"No Sherlock, I wasn't mugged," he sighed.

Sherlock brought his hand down as Mycroft's head fell into his hands.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked. His brother eyed him, and he realized: he wasn't supposed to know. "I don't care if it's your bloody job."

Mycroft studied him long and hard, deciding if he could trust him or not.

"Since when are you so caring?" Mycroft mused.

"Since my brother comes home from work looking like he got beat up for saying the wrong thing on the playground."

Snorting again, but then he sighed:

"You know I can't tell you. But basically…I screwed up. Royally. I made a mistake, a mistake so bad…I can't even fathom how bad it is. And Sherlock someone…someone died because of it."

His eyes widened, and Mycroft immediately looked away. His brother brought his fist to his face, burying it deeply against his eyes.

"It couldn't have been your fault," Sherlock whispered.

Voice dry, stomach churning, he himself felt like he might be sick.

"I got something wrong," Mycroft said, speaking so softly he could hardly hear him.

"You made a mistake."

"You're not allowed to make mistakes at my job."

They fell silent; Sherlock just wasn't sure what to say.

"It's fine," Mycroft lied, placing a hand on the table, close to Sherlock's. "It's not for you to worry about."

Sherlock frowned as he examined Mycroft's hand, noticing bruising that indicated he had been handcuffed.

"You were arrested?!" He exclaimed.

It earned him a fierce glare, and he knew he was far from correct.

"Oh," he whispered. As he glanced his brother up and down, he noticed other signs of trauma, such as the ripped collar of his shirt and the dirt and grime covering his fingertips. "Are you sure you shouldn't be checked out?"

"I'm okay," Mycroft said. "Superficial."

"Your neck is bleeding."

Mycroft shrugged. Sherlock had the impression he wanted to get up and leave, but instead Mycroft's eyes fell to the table, like he wanted to stay but didn't know what to say. When the tea was ready Sherlock stood and poured both of them a cup.

"I try hard at my job, Sherlock, I really do," Mycroft whispered. "And most days I think I'm bloody good at it. But sometimes I just do the stupidest things, and the other people there just give me a look like…"

"Like you're young and stupid and don't know what you're doing?" Mycroft looked up at him, surprised. Sherlock snorted. "I get that all the time. Of course you're going to make mistakes, you're twenty-four. You're only what, five years old than me?"

"Seven," Mycroft replied dryly, "and I'm twenty-six."

Sherlock stared at him.

"Seriously?" Mycroft didn't reply; clearly his attempts at comic relief were crashing and burning. "Whatever happened…I'm sure they would have all done the same thing at your age."

"No, they wouldn't have."

"How do you know?" Sherlock pointed out. "Those guys are probably all old, with loads of experience. In all those years someone had to screw up at least once."

"Someone died."

A sickening feeling crawled in his stomach; he knew that was something he could never try to make better.

"Yeah, well…" he whispered, unsure of what to say. "What did your…supervisor, or whoever it is you work for, have to say about it?"

Mycroft paled as he shook his head. He looked completely devoid of emotion, like the entire night had drained every ounce of humanity from him.

"He let me do the debriefing without interruption, and he said we would talk in the morning," his brother said. He paused for a moment and then drew in a deep breath before admitting: "I think I'm going to be fired."

His eyes widened as his heart began to pound. He was beginning to understand the utter terror running through his brother's eyes. Mycroft must have gotten so used to living life this way: with a brilliant job, responsibility, respect, and money. He could only imagine Mycroft picturing himself going broke, possibly even having to move back in with…

"No," Sherlock said, shaking his head as he interrupted his own thoughts. "That won't happen. You were hurt, surely that counts for something."

Mycroft snorted.

"Yeah, it's further proof that I'm an idiot," he said. He went quiet for a moment, before speaking up quietly: "Maybe I should just quit. Maybe I'm not right for this."

"Don't say that," Sherlock whispered. "Jesus, Mycroft, you landed a job with the government straight out of university. They let you go overseas and stuff. They don't give that kind of responsibility to just anyone. At least…I hope not."

"Yeah, well, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm cut out for this," Mycroft said. He rested a hand against his face, looking completely shell-shocked. Sherlock wished he knew what he was supposed to be saying because he had absolutely no experience with being the supportive one- and Mycroft needed some help, quick. "I don't know what I'm doing here. Maybe I'm just kidding myself, thinking I chose the right career. Sometimes I'm in so over my head that I just feel sick. But I can't tell anyone, I just have to deal with it...and I don't know how much longer I can. I was bloody useless tonight."

"One bad night," Sherlock said. "One bad night when you're twenty-six years old and you want to give it all up?"

Mycroft didn't reply. In fact, it almost looked as though he were listening to him. As though he were beginning to feel guilty for feeling so miserable.

"Look at you trying to be wise," Mycroft mumbled. With a dramatic sigh he stood, picking up the tea. "I think I'm just going to wash up and get some sleep."

Sherlock didn't reply; he was too ashamed to admit that he didn't want Mycroft to leave. For once, he legitimately wished there was something he could do; but Mycroft took his silence as his blessing and quietly slipped away to his bedroom.

He remained seated with his glued to the table for another ten minutes before he thought to move. He couldn't even begin to imagine what was going through Mycroft's mind. He couldn't begin to imagine what it must be like, to live with that kind of physical danger and mental torture every day. He couldn't help but to wonder how many bruises Mycroft hid from him; how many times his brother came home just wishing someone would talk to him about what happened. And he never even paid attention.

But tonight, Mycroft seemed ill just at the thought of talking about it.

At two in the morning he finally gathered his things and headed for his bedroom. On the way he stopped by Mycroft's room. The door was just barely open wide enough for him to see through. In the moonlight he could see Mycroft lying on his side, facing the wall closest to the door. He never even noticed his own brother watching from the doorway. Instead, Mycroft's eyes remained wide with horror as he stared into nothing. The wound on his neck was badly bandaged, and he looked paler than ever.

Sherlock turned away, swallowing the bile that crept up his throat.

Some nights he was grateful that Mycroft wasn't allowed to tell him details about his job.

* * *

Author's Note: One of the things I really enjoy when writing this story is exploring Mycroft's past, but sometimes I worry I make him too emotionally vulnerable. I look at this in the perspective of these characters are two totally different people than they would be at the time of canon. Mycroft's *26* in this and trying to start a career with the government, all while caring for his younger brother. Then there's cases like this chapter, where he's so upset and in shock because he feels responsible for this horrible thing that happened. I just trying to imagine how hard all of that would be, especially on such a young person going through so much already. But what do you think? Is it too much? Any feedback is greatly appreciated!


	15. Caught In the Act

Author's Notes: This story has managed to go way off outline. Why I enjoy writing moody Sherlock and Mycroft so much I'm not sure...really I guess it's just plain fun. Eventually this goes somewhere, promise! In fact, what started out as a poor attempted at a Valentine's Day chapter turned into a way to finally give this fic some direction. This chapter's another time jump, just so you'll see that this does actually have a point.

Well...

* * *

_February 14, 1998_

"I can't believe you sent me to a movie theatre on Valentine's Day!" Sherlock exclaimed as he stormed into the flat. He flipped on the lights as he slammed the door behind him. "That's the last time I follow an anonymous address left on the counter-"

He froze. After making the mistake of not looking as he entered the sitting room, he failed to see the two forms lying together on the sofa.

"Top," he said, mouth going dry.

It didn't take long for him to figure out what was going on. As his eyes adjusted to the light they met those of one of the forms- his brother, lying shirtless beneath an older man he had never seen before. The guy had to be at least in his lower thirties, with short brown hair cropped just above his eyes and dark brown eyes. Mycroft's eyes widened with horror as he realized what was happening; he was still panting slightly and sweat actually swam across his brow.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. His stomach ached, he felt like he might be ill. In the end, he did the only thing he could do-

He turned to flee, but Mycroft stopped him:

"Sherlock!"

Swallowing hard, he halted. It was all he could do to not be sick right there on the spot. He heard the two shuffle around a moment before Mycroft appeared behind him.

"We should talk," Mycroft stated quietly.

He stole a glance toward his brother, and he was relieved to see that at least Mycroft looked twice as embarrassed as he felt. His brother's normally pale face was glowing red.

"Can you at least put a shirt on first?" Sherlock shot.

Mycroft stole a glance toward the guy on the couch, who threw him one of the shirts from the floor. They marched quietly toward the kitchen, but as soon as they were out of eyesight Sherlock rounded on his brother.

"You send me on some wild goose chase so you could hide in here and have sex with your older boyfriend!"

His brother's eyes went wide; he looked a bit ill himself.

"That's not what it's like-"

"It _is_!" Sherlock cried. "Christ, Mycroft, I'm not angry, I'm _disturbed_. Congratulations, this family has officially traumatized me!"

Once again he balled his fists against his eyes in a helpless attempt to erase the memory.

"It's really not that big of a deal," Mycroft replied dryly.

Sherlock stared at him, incredulous.

"Not a big deal?" He repeated. "Mycroft, it's freezing outside! You leave some random note telling me to meet you at an address across town, which turns out to be a movie theatre- which was packed, by the way. Then I have to wait nearly twenty minutes for the tube so I can come back here to find you getting-"

Mycroft's eyes slammed shut; Sherlock was certain for a moment that he was about to be puked on.

"Please don't finish that sentence," his brother mumbled.

"Gladly."

There was a brief moment of silence as they both caught their breath. Sherlock subconsciously shifted away from his brother, feeling more uncomfortable every moment he stood near him.

"Forgive me, Sherlock, but it's hard sometimes sharing a flat with my nineteen year old brother," Mycroft admitted. "I at least like to pretend like I have a flat sometimes."

"Doesn't he have somewhere you can go for a shag?"

Mycroft's face turned so red it was nearly purple.

"Yes, but he too has a roommate." Mycroft's voice was suddenly higher, and Sherlock couldn't help but to smirk.

"Isn't that what hotels are for?"

The thought that he could get payback by making his brother feel as sickly embarrassed as he felt made him feel slightly better.

"Forget it," Mycroft muttered, "clearly you're not mature enough-"

"'_Mature enough'_?" Sherlock shot. "Oh I know exactly what you two were doing. Your fly's still open, by the way."

He chuckled as Mycroft turned around, fixing the problem.

"And can we please address the fact that the guy is old?" Sherlock said.

Suddenly, he was almost enjoying this. Rarely did he have an excuse to put Mycroft on the spot.

"He's not old!" Mycroft hissed, glancing toward the door in horror. "He's only thirty-five!"

Sherlock choked on his own breath as he tried to process that fact.

"He's _nine years_ older than you?!"

"It's not that big of a deal!"

"Right, tell yourself that when you're his age and he's forty-five!"

At this Mycroft's eyes hardened, and Sherlock realized he crossed the line.

"Actually, he would only be forty-four," Mycroft snapped. "Learn some math. Oh wait, you can't because you didn't actually go to university!"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shot:

"You're being a child, Mye. If you had simply said 'hey Sherlock, could you get out of the flat for a few hours so I can shag an older man' I would have been happy to oblige."

When he saw the fire that lit up in Mycroft's eyes he took an impulsive step back. Mycroft's hand raised slightly and Sherlock swallowed, bracing himself. But the slap never came.

"You're enjoying this too much," Mycroft mumbled.

Sherlock grinned.

"It's nice to see your human side sometimes," he admitted. "Seriously though, I may need to wash my eyes out for a good hour or two…or five."

"Did you really not know that was the address for the theatre?" Mycroft asked.

He shrugged.

"I don't go to movies."

They remained silent for a moment as they avoided each other's eyes and the question of _where do we go from here?_

"So…he's older than you?" Sherlock asked quietly.

Mycroft ran his hands over his face as he sighed.

"You know we haven't actually eaten yet," Mycroft said. "Want to join us?"

Sherlock only stared. How had he fallen into this trap?

"He wants to meet you," Mycroft admitted.

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled. "But do we have to eat? I feel sick."

Mycroft smirked.

"You know," Sherlock began as they headed back toward the sitting room, "dare I say it, this is almost _cool_ of you."

"Thanks…I think."

When they re-entered the room the boyfriend was fully dressed and in the process of slipping his watch back onto his wrist. Sherlock smirked when he recognized the brand as the gift Mycroft was given earlier that year.

"Sherlock, this is Andrew."

Andrew held out his hand, which was trembling ever so slightly- more out of nerves than embarrassment, Sherlock realized.

"Hi," Sherlock muttered as he shook the hand. They stood in silence for a long moment until Sherlock realized he was supposed to say something more. "You're a banker, right?"

His brother's eyes lit up in horror beside him as Andrew's face contorted into confusion.

"I'm a science teacher," Andrew stated bluntly. "Mye-"

Sherlock shut his eyes, desperately trying to not consider that his brother's boyfriend used the same nickname as he did. He also realized his mistake, what it meant, and now he felt even worse.

"So I thought Sherlock could eat with us," Mycroft said, quick to change the subject. "You two can get to know each other-"

"You know what?" Sherlock said, swirling around to his brother. "A movie sounds good right now."

He fled the flat before Mycroft could protest. He had no intention of going to the movies. Instead he took off down the street, ignoring the freezing wind wrapping around him.

His brother had broken up with his partner without even telling him- before even introducing the two. All this time, Sherlock just assumed that was still going on. Mycroft acted so normal…he couldn't even think of a time when his brother's behavior had been even the slightest bit off.

Not only that, but Mycroft met this new person and had clearly been seeing him long enough for the guy to have an interested in meeting him.

All of this told him one thing: his brother truly didn't care if he knew what was going on his life. He still only had a vague idea of what his brother actually didn't for a living. He clearly knew nothing of Mycroft's life.

The only conclusion he could draw from this was that Mycroft didn't really want him around anymore. He was a burden, and of course he was- why didn't he realize it before? Mycroft had been so quiet since his return from overseas. Sherlock always assumed he was just trying to deal with whatever happened to him, but now he realized Mycroft must have been coming to terms with the fact that nothing changed.

He never went to the movies. Instead he spent the night wondering around London, contemplating what to do.

He could always try to go back to university. There was still the idea of going to school abroad. At least then he would have an excuse to not have to deal with Mycroft, or anyone else for that matter. It might even be different somewhere else. No one would know who he was…he could even start over.

As he walked, Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets to shield himself further from the cold. It was late now, well past midnight, and he was still a block away. The wondering eyes of a homeless couple found him, and Sherlock swallowed nervously as he quickly passed. It was always like they knew who he truly was.

When he got back to the flat all he wanted to do was head straight to bed and hope his brother and Andrew had taken their night elsewhere. Instead, he was startled to find Mycroft sitting in his armchair by himself. Fully clothed, a glass of whiskey lingered, forgotten, in his hand. His brother's eyes stared into the space before him, completely separate from reality.

Andrew was nowhere to be seen.

"Mycroft?" He asked carefully.

His brother's eyes flashed up toward him, and Sherlock was shocked to catch a trace of relief in them. Mycroft was actually happy to see him.

"What happened to your boyfriend?" He asked, leaving behind the sarcasm.

At last, Mycroft took a shot of whiskey.

"He left," Mycroft breathed.

Once again he looked like he might be ill: not from embarrassment, but from longing.

"Oh," Sherlock whispered. "So…did you end up having a good night?"

He paled slightly, realizing how much he did not want to know the answer to that question.

"No, Sherlock, _he left_." Mycroft groaned and threw himself back into the armchair. His stomach twisted into knots as he realized what his brother meant. "He decided this wasn't going to work out."

"Oh."

Mycroft took one glance at the state of him, noting his skin- pale from the cold- and the thin jumper clinging to him. He took another shot of whiskey.

"You really shouldn't be walking around the city alone like that so late," Mycroft said.

He couldn't stand it any longer.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out. Mycroft stared at him, surprised. "I shouldn't have made a big deal about it."

Shaking his head, Mycroft sat back again, crossing his legs. Again his eyes were vacant, and Sherlock couldn't be completely sure that Mycroft was completely present in his room.

"You were right, it wouldn't have worked out. He was practically old enough to be your father." Their eyes met; clearly Mycroft was concerned he would take that too personally, but Sherlock let it slide.

But he couldn't ignore how Mycroft left him out.

"He's not the banker," he said quietly. "He's a science teacher."

Mycroft glanced toward him, studying him over the glass. He took another shot of whiskey before replying:

"Truth? I met him at the pub last weekend."

Sherlock found himself choking again as he tried to find actual words.

"You were at a pub?!" He exclaimed. "Who are you and what happened to my brother? Ever since you came back from…wherever…you've been weird."

Mycroft let out a deep sigh, and as Sherlock studied him, truly studied him, he realized he was looking into the eyes of a complete stranger. It was true that after their New Year's Eve heart-to-heart Mycroft hardly said two words to him. But the real truth was that he had never known the real Mycroft.

"I'm going to get some sleep," Mycroft sighed. "This whole thing was one stupid mistake."

"What actually happened to the banker?" He asked.

He figured his brother was just drunk enough to tell him the truth. Gazing into his glass, Mycroft drew in a deep breath before admitting:

"It was all the traveling. It was me coming home with cuts and bruises. It was the secrecy about my job. It was all too much for him, I suppose. I was the one who let him off the hook." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I couldn't bring him down like that. He was really a good guy. Too good for me."

"So you picked up a science teacher at a pub?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"For someone who looked like they were about to be sick all over the floor a couple of hours ago you sure are nosy now," Mycroft shot.

Instead of replying, Sherlock stared at him, trying to figure it out. Obviously this wasn't just a small issue. There was more going on, and there was a reason he was being avoided.

All at once, everything clicked.

"It's me," he whispered. Suddenly, he felt sick again. "I'm in the way."

"Don't say that," Mycroft sighed. "We've been over this-"

"That's why the banker left. That's why the science teacher didn't take you seriously. No one wants to hang around a grown man who's flatmates with his little brother."

"That's not what this is about-"

"There's something you should know," he announced, and Mycroft froze. At that moment, he made his mind up. "I'm going back to university."

He let out a breath he hadn't realize he was holding. Mycroft studied him for a moment before finishing off his drink.

It wasn't just something he considered during his walk around the city. It was an option he had tossed back and forth for months, back from his time stuck living with his father again.

"I've just realized there are far worse things than sitting in boring classes and dealing with posh students," he admitted. Mycroft still didn't say anything. "But I won't go in London. I want to look at schools abroad…or at least in Scotland or somewhere…"

At last Mycroft looked away, signaling that he was actually listening.

And then something insane happened.

Sherlock realized his brother was _impressed_.

"What about Oxford?"

He blinked. He was even more startled when Mycroft took out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one for himself and handed one to Sherlock. Graciously, he accepted it, breathing deeply for a moment.

"I know it's still the United Kingdom, but you can't deny its legacy."

Sherlock simply stared at him, stunned. He realized he hadn't expected Mycroft to be supportive- let alone _encouraging_.

"You really think I would do well at Oxford?" He said quietly.

The very thought of the competition he would face at Oxford was enough to make him shutter from nerves. Mycroft actually offered him a half-smile.

"I think you could do well at a lot of things," Mycroft admitted. "What are you interested in studying?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I honestly haven't thought about it," he admitted.

This time Mycroft laughed.

"You have time to think about it before fall," Mycroft said.

"You say that like I'm already in," Sherlock said, still reeling with the shock of the fact that his brother was being _nice_ about this.

Mycroft was already putting out his cigarette.

"I know people," he smirked. "Sherlock if you want this, if you really want this, I know it can happen."

Nodding, Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Somehow it felt like a load was lifted from his shoulders. The air seemed to clear a bit, and his thoughts were beginning to make a little more sense. It was a relieving feeling, knowing what was ahead for him.

"You really think I can do it?" He asked again.

His voice was shaking with fear, and Mycroft acknowledged this with sympathetic eyes.

"I do," Mycroft admitted. "But don't do it to get away from me."

"I won't," he promise. Then he quickly added: "I am sorry."

Shaking his head, Mycroft stood with a sigh.

"It was a bad idea," his brother admitted. "A very bad one. God I feel so-"

"Dirty?" Sherlock smirked.

Mycroft glared at him.

"I was going to say pathetic, but thanks."

Laughing, Sherlock put out his own cigarette.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Mycroft."

Once again, Mycroft looked ill. The darkened look returned to his eyes as he replied:

"Mark my words: this is the last time I celebrate this bloody holiday."


	16. The Christmas Dinner

Author's Note: There are multiple references both in this story and in Three Days of a Christmas dinner that led to Mycroft pretty much disowning his father. This is the story of said dinner. To say I was nervous about posting this chapter would be putting it lightly, so I hope I've done this chapter some sort of justice!

* * *

"Sherlock, you have to get out of the car."

"No."

"We drove all the way to Devon, _get out of the car_!"

"You kidnapped me!"

"I didn't!" Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh. "It's Christmas, Sherlock, you can't blame him for wanting to see his sons on Christmas."

Sherlock kicked at the glove box of their rental car and sunk further down into his seat. They were parked outside their father's estate. Despite the snow falling around them and the windows that were already fogging up from the icy temperatures, Mycroft had the heat and engine turned off.

"This whole holiday is stupid," Sherlock mumbled. "I'm not going to go in there and be subjected to his torture because it's Christmas."

"Don't say that," Mycroft growled. "The magic of Christmas is that he's _not_ going to say anything _because_ it's Christmas."

He rolled his eyes, allowing them to trail to the front steps of their father's house.

_A hand reached out toward him…_

He could remember that first day he ran away so clearly that he had to close his eyes to block out the images.

"I don't want to see him," Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft studied him carefully, and suddenly Sherlock wished he never said anything.

"Neither do I." Sherlock looked at him, stunned. His brother sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "But I want us to go because I want him to see that we're okay. We're not going to let him think we can't take care of ourselves. We're going to go in there and have Christmas dinner with our father, like adults."

Sherlock had a feeling that 'take care of ourselves' really meant 'take care of you'. He wished for nothing more than to be able to melt away into the snow outside; he would have rather done anything but walk inside that house. But Mycroft opened the car door, signaling the end to the conversation.

"You can come inside and eat something for an hour or freeze to death out here," Mycroft said. "Your choice."

He ducked out of view but appeared again within seconds.

The door slammed, and Sherlock groaned.

That was how he ended up sitting at their old family table, with his father on one end, Mycroft on the other, and he stuck awkwardly on one of the sides. The food before them looked completely unappealing, and for the first ten minutes he did nothing but poke around his plate. Mycroft ate quietly while their father gazed at him, as though he could stare a conversation out of his son. Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the table, desperately hoping he wouldn't be called on, but even from where he sat he could see the changes in their father.

He had gained more weight without building the muscle to support it. He reeked of whiskey, though he wasn't drinking, and the familiar smell of cigar smoke stained the table. His strawberry-blonde hair was thinning out, and dark bags hung low beneath his eyes.

"How is work?" His father asked, abruptly breaking the silence.

Both sons stared at him, and Sherlock then glanced toward his brother, wondering if he would answer.

"Fine," Mycroft muttered.

Mycroft's fingers were gripping his fork too tightly.

"You two getting along then?" Their father continued. Again, he and Mycroft exchanged glances, confused. Neither answered. "It's awfully quiet without you two here."

Mycroft suddenly slammed his fork down onto the table, and Sherlock jumped. A familiar fire was in his eyes as he glared at his father, and the smallest of smiles peered at the corner of Sherlock's lips, purely out of pride. Slowly but surely, Mycroft was beginning to see his point.

"Sorry," Mycroft mumbled.

Sherlock's face fell.

Or maybe not.

"Are you sure you like having an eighteen year old kid hanging around?" Their father smirked. "Shouldn't you be out, having a life?"

Mycroft simply stared at him.

"We're doing perfectly fine," Sherlock interrupted. "No thanks to you."

There was a moment of silence as his father stared at him, and it was all Sherlock could do to not look away.

"Have you gotten what you want yet, Mycroft?" Sherlock hissed.

Mycroft's eyes fell closed, and he knew he shouldn't have said that.

"Is that what this is?" Their father growled. "A coup? Well forgive me if I'm not intimidated by someone who fills their head with cocaine." He glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft for a moment; Sherlock was frozen in his seat, but his heart pounded so loudly he was certain everyone else could hear. With fiery eyes finally fixated on Mycroft, their father announced: "He doesn't give a shit about you. You're a burden to him, but he's too ashamed to say it. Mycroft never gave a damn about anyone but himself."

"That's not true!" Mycroft exclaimed.

"He told me so," his father growled, his voice deep enough to send shivers down his spine. His eyes flickered to his brother, who went completely stiff. "Did you know he used to call me, when you ran away? He wanted me to take you back."

"That's just not true," Mycroft whispered.

"He didn't believe what you told him about me," his father continued. His eyes were dark but still glistened with delight. Sherlock would never have dreamt of believing him…accept Mycroft was petrified. He wouldn't even look at him. "What did he want with an eighteen year old drug addict?"

Swallowing hard, he tried to find the courage to say something, to defend his brother, but he didn't know what to do. Or who to believe. Sure, Mycroft at least pretended to care, but then there were days when his brother hardly spoke to him- when he hardly looked at him. As much as Mycroft reached out to him, he remained distant.

"That's why he's leaving you here with me today."

His father fell silent as a grin swept across his grimy face. Sherlock's eyes widened as he turned once again to Mycroft. Mycroft swallowed, looking too stunned for words himself. Or perhaps too guilty for being caught.

"Sherlock-" his brother began. It wasn't a protest.

"You didn't have to take me in," Sherlock said quietly. "I would have done perfectly fine without you."

"He's lying to you, just like he always does!" Mycroft exclaimed.

"_Don't_ call me a liar!" Their father roared. His brother actually shuddered at the tone of his voice.

"That's why you were so determined to come here today," Sherlock stammered. "You're leaving me here?"

He swallowed once again, fighting back the emotions overwhelming him. Suddenly the room felt entirely too hot, and he gave a subconscious tug to the shirt collar strangling his neck. He thought to bolt, but he had nowhere to go but Mycroft's rental car.

"It's not like that, I swear," Mycroft pleaded. "I was going to talk to you."

"When?" Sherlock exclaimed. "When you were driving away?!"

"Let's talk about this outside," Mycroft said, glancing nervously toward their father.

"I'm not staying with _him_!"

Mycroft's eyes fell closed. This clearly wasn't how his brother planned this conversation, but he didn't care.

"Please, Sherlock, just let me talk to you alone," Mycroft said quietly.

"It's nice to see you screw up for a change, Mye," their father smirked.

His brother stiffened at the use of the nickname, which was something their father only threw at him with the utmost disgust. Sherlock was completely torn: he couldn't believe that Mycroft would actually do this to him, but he couldn't witness his brother being bullied like this. He was going to say something, but Mycroft spoke up first.

"Shut up."

Mycroft's voice was soft but strong. His brother's hands formed fists by his sides, and Sherlock couldn't help but to think of the training that seemed to kick in every time Mycroft got into a heated argument. Their father got to his feet.

"What did you say?" He said, breathing heavily as his hands gripped the table. Mycroft flinched, as though a strong wind just blew him over, but he didn't reply. "You want to dump your brother on me with almost no warning so you can go abroad for some _business meeting_? You expect me to just take him in, and you dare to _yell at me_?"

Mycroft swallowed again, as though trying to contain his own emotions.

"I changed my mind," he announced suddenly, voice shaking ever so slightly. Mycroft got to his feet. "You're not staying here."

He wasn't sure rather to be relieved or terrified. Mycroft reached out to take him by the arm, but their father's voice ripped through the draft air, shaking the whole room.

"He's my son! If you're tired of taking care of him I think I'll decide where he goes!"

"He's eighteen, and you've never taken care of him!"

The startling sound of shattering glass made him flinch, and Sherlock didn't have a chance to take in what happened before he noticed the small cut drawing blood on his brother's cheek. Sherlock glanced from the cut to the broken plate that had crashed into the wall just inches from Mycroft's head. With a labored breath, Mycroft drew an arm across his face to wipe away the blood.

"We're leaving," Mycroft announced. Their father opened his mouth, but Mycroft continued, his voice like ice: "And if I ever hear of you laying another hand on him, you'll pay for it."

Mycroft reached for the glass of wine that sat at his place on the table and tossed it toward where the plate the wall. Their father's eyes widened as he watched the wine splash across an old family painting. Without another word, Mycroft stormed out of the room. He didn't address Sherlock, but he sure as hell was not going to stay there for a moment longer.

"Follow him and you'll never be allowed back in here." his father warned.

He drew in a deep breath as his scanned the dining room. If he had his way, it would be his last time standing there. It would be the last time he would ever speak to his father again. As he took in the glass shattered on the floor and remembered the cut on his brother's face, he let out the breath he was holding.

Immediately it felt like a huge weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He turned around without saying a final word to his father. He tried to not think of his mother as he stormed out; he could still picture her serving breakfast at that very table. Instead he kept his chin up, managed to hold back the tears threatening to flow, and when he stepped out into the cold afternoon air he finally felt like he could breathe easily again.

Mycroft was sitting in the rental car, hands on the steering wheel. He looked a bit green in the face, like he might be sick.

"It wasn't true, what he said," Mycroft said as soon as he opened the door. His brother's eyes fell on him, but Sherlock looked away, exhausted from being the center of attention. "I promise you, Sherlock. He was just trying to manipulate you."

"It's fine," he whispered. "Please…just don't make me stay here."

Mycroft studied him carefully, trying to determine the best thing to do.

"I can't leave you alone in the flat. Believe me, bringing you back here was the last thing I ever wanted to do. But you don't work, you're not in school. I need to know you're looked after, just in case…there's just a lot more to this than you know."

At Mycroft's protest he felt like he might break. He turned to his brother, his eyes wet, pleading, desperate. He felt so weak and helpless it was sickening. He didn't know what Mycroft meant by "just in case"- he didn't want to. And at the moment, he didn't care.

"So you'd rather leave me with _him_?" He managed. "You have no idea how dangerous _he_ is."

"My hands are tied," Mycroft sighed, "I just didn't know what else to do."

Sherlock didn't reply. He still couldn't fathom how Mycroft could ever believe he would be in any kind of safety at their father's house.

"I can take you to Grandmother's," Mycroft offered. "That's the best I can do, I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He nodded, pretending like he understood.

"She doesn't know anything," his brother admitted. "But she'll take care of you. I didn't want to reach out to her first because she's not too well at the moment. Then again, it may not be so bad. She needs someone to look after her too."

He nodded again as he sank down into the seat. He glanced over to his brother, catching sight of the cut.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft let out a hollow laugh as he shook his head.

"I'm fine," he said. "I'm great, actually. I can't believe I just did that."

Sherlock couldn't help but to grin.

"It was brilliant!" He said. "Did you see his face?"

The smallest of smiles appeared on his brother's face as he turned to him once again.

"I mean it, he was lying," Mycroft insisted. "Please believe me."

He stared at his brother, but he couldn't answer. He was ashamed that he had ever doubted him, that he had for even a second believed his father over him.

"You're not going away for a business meeting, are you?" He asked quietly.

Mycroft froze, staring straight ahead instead of saying something he shouldn't. That was all Sherlock needed to see.

He felt a hand on his shoulder as Mycroft gripped him there, an attempt at comfort. His brother shook his head as he started up the rental car.

"You'll be fine," Mycroft promised.

Sherlock nodded again as he sank down into the seat and let his eyes fall close.

Even he could see that Mycroft was trying to convince himself as much as him.

* * *

Author's Note: You may also remember that Sherlock ends up staying with his father after said fight. You'll find out why soon. You'll also see why Mycroft was so worried about this assignment that he would consider taking Sherlock back home. As far as the rift between he and his father, let's just say that for every issue Sherlock has had with his father Mycroft has had trouble as well. This was just the final straw. I hope this chapter didn't turn out too horribly!


	17. Going Away

It was two in the morning on December 26, 1996. Instead of going back to London Mycroft insisted they stay in a hotel for the night. If it was cold outside, he didn't notice as he paced the front driveway. His whole body was numb from the events of Christmas Day. Eventually Sherlock stopped fighting the idea that his brother was abandoning him so that he could give into the realization that he needed game plan.

"Can I get one of those?"

Sherlock jumped as Mycroft's appeared beside him, holding out his hand. He drew the cigarette from his mouth for a moment and stared at before reaching for the box in his pockets.

"I shouldn't let you smoke these," Mycroft said as he accepted the cigarette and lighter.

Shrugging, he replied:

"You shouldn't smoke them either."

Mycroft's hoarse laughter quickly died out in the cold wind.

"You couldn't sleep either?" He asked.

"I don't sleep much these days," Mycroft admitted. Sherlock became aware of his brother's staring; he was studying him with that familiar look of sympathy. He shifted away from Mycroft, uncomfortable. "I wanted to make sure we were okay."

His heart skipped a beat; it was like Mycroft had read his mind.

"Yeah," he lied, eyes glued to the pavement. "It's fine, really."

"It's just that-"

"Why can't I just stay at the flat?"

Mycroft froze as Sherlock suddenly rounded on him. The stench of smoke was heavy between them as Mycroft put out the last of his cigarette and turned so that they were finally facing each other.

"If it's money, I can get a job," he offered, ignoring how desperate he sounded.

"It's not money," Mycroft said quietly.

"Then what?" He exclaimed. "You don't trust me with your flat?"

"No!" Mycroft drew in a deep breath. "I just need you to trust me."

"I can't trust you when I don't even know what's going on!" Sherlock shot. "I don't even know why you're leaving, or where you're going. Maybe if I did I'd understand why you're so damn afraid."

His brother's eyes went wide.

"Yeah," Sherlock said quietly. He felt the slightest bit guilty for having to call out his brother like that, but at least he seemed to have his attention. "That's the only thing this can be, right? You're afraid something will happen to me, or that I'll do something, or-"

"That's not it." Mycroft's voice was hardly a whisper.

"Then tell me!"

"I can't!" With a deep sigh, Mycroft raised a hand to his forehead, pinching the skin their tightly. _Headache,_ he realized. "You know way more about my job than you should. There are things I've told you that could place both of us in serious…trouble if anyone found out."

Mycroft stopped short as he finished, and Sherlock knew _danger_ was what he really meant. As Mycroft's eyes flashed around the estate, Sherlock finally understood what he was getting at. He also understood that Mycroft wasn't being paranoid- he was looking for someone.

"Shit…is somebody following you?" Sherlock asked quietly. Mycroft continued to look away, hesitant. His heart began to pound as the implications of what Mycroft was saying became clearer. "Are they following _me_?"

"Sherlock-"

"I have a right to know-"

"You don't," Mycroft snapped, facing him once again. Sherlock stiffened as his brother placed a hand on his shoulder, begging for him to listen. "I don't want you in London, alright?"

He knew he couldn't ask questions. If someone was following them he was probably putting them in danger just by standing outside alone. So he nodded, and relief washed over his brother's face. As he his hand fell Sherlock couldn't help but to glance around the hotel, wondering what signs his brother was looking for.

"Do me a favor, okay?" Mycroft asked, taking something from his pocket. He placed a white card with someone's phone number written on it in his hands. "If you have any trouble, if you get into any trouble, call this number."

Sherlock couldn't help but to laugh.

"Is it some kind of teen drug help line?" He smirked.

He was actually happy to see the faintest of smiles greet him.

"No, but it's someone you can trust," Mycroft admitted.

Nodding, he examined the number on the card. It wasn't a business card, so it had to be someone his brother knew personally. That should narrow down options if he actually had any idea of who his brother knew.

"When do you leave?" He asked. He wasn't surprised when Mycroft didn't answer. "Right."

Silence fell between them. From the corner of his eye he noticed Mycroft raising his hand to his head again, as though his headache were still pestering him. But as he brought his hand down his brother glanced around again, eyes roaming every corner of the lot they stood in.

"Can I ask you something?" Sherlock said. He didn't wait for permission as he looked to his brother. "Who are you more afraid of: the people you're fighting or the people you work for?"

He was shocked when Mycroft broke into a grin and let out a soft laugh. Shaking his head, his brother simply turned toward their room.

"You're too smart for your own good," Mycroft admitted. "Come on, we should go inside."

Sherlock let him lead usher him inside. He made sure Mycroft noticed him pocketing the number carefully, though it didn't matter. He already had it memorized.


	18. Gwendoyln

Author's Note: Here's a teaser of what is to come! You'll learn more of Sherlock's family history soon as Sherlock desperately tries to figure out who he is. This is where the story deviates even more from canon and into a very fanfiction-y world.

* * *

When Mycroft said their grandmother was old and needed help he wasn't lying. It was years since Sherlock last saw his grandmother; it was a trip he always fought his way out of and his father usually let him. He always sensed he wasn't welcomed in that side of the family, and so far that impression was proving correct.

Gwendolyn Holmes was nearing her eighties. Her husband long since passed away, before Sherlock could ever know him, but he remembered stories of his grandparents marrying at a young age. It was part of why the two could never understand each other, and even in her old age and her plethora of breathing and heart problems, he still found himself pestered daily.

"You're throwing your life away, Sherlock," she warned him the first morning he stayed over. He glared at her, unamused. "Mycroft has the right idea, becoming a handsome young lawyer. He'll be able to provide for a family very well one day."

Sherlock choked on the tea he was drinking. They sat together in his grandmother's cramped kitchen, which was littered with collectibles from her travels. His grandmother's hand trembled as she poured herself a cuppa. At first he thought she might be going senile, but then he realized: _she has no clue what Mycroft does. _

He couldn't help but to smirk as he raised the mug of tea to his lips again.

"What is it you're studying in university?" She asked, voice quivering slightly.

His eyes went wide in a moment of panic. He realized that if Mycroft lied about his job he may have lied about school as well.

"Organic chemistry," he lied.

She simply nodded. At last she sat the kettle down, but instead of drinking the tea she simply stared at it. He watched her, wondering if he was supposed to do something.

"Are you alright?" He asked quietly.

For a moment longer she stared at the mug until finally she blinked.

"Oh yes. Quite so."

Her voice was nearly a whisper. Silently, she picked up the mug and looked away, as though hoping he wouldn't ask more questions.

"I was wondering if you still lived in London," she admitted. "I haven't seen you since…"

She trailed off as she tried to do the math in her head. Sherlock swallowed, looking down as he realized how horrible the answer was. It was Christmas, well over two years ago, since he truly last spent time with his grandmother.

"I suppose your father's doing well," she went on. He looked up, shocked. Considering how protectively his father spoke of his grandmother he always assumed they were close.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

She didn't press the subject, and he continued sipping the tea, grateful. Suddenly she looked at him, her eyes oddly cloudy and vacant.

"Are you in school, Mycroft?"

He blinked, unsure what to think. Of course he heard of older people having memory problems or even Alzheimer's, but he never thought it could happen to someone in his family. Mycroft never mentioned she was in _this_ bad of shape. All at once the thought of staying with her all year was intimidating. He didn't know the first thing about taking care of someone, let alone someone who needed special attention. What was he thinking, believing this would work out? What was Mycroft thinking?

"I'm Sherlock," he whispered. "I'm not in school."

"Have you graduated, then?" She wondered.

His cheeks turned red; the more he head to repeat this story, the more shameful it became.

"Would you like some more tea?" He asked, hoping to change the subject.

"You look like your mother."

For a moment his heart skipped a beat and his chest became tight. He stared at her, wide-eyed and in shock, not only at the abrupt change of subject but at the confession itself. Never before had someone told him that. In fact when he was younger all he got were "compliments" of how much he looked like his father. Mycroft was always the one that "looks so much like your mother!"- a fact that he was always secretly envious of.

"It's your eyes," she said with a quivering voice. "She always had the prettiest eyes. She was much too good for your father. I thought that even when they met."

His heart began pounding faster as his interest peaked. He never heard any stories of his parents when they were younger. He always wondered what they were like- what his father was like then, even. Since all the trouble at home began he lay awake many nights trying to connect the dots and figure out when everything went wrong.

"What were they like when they met?" He asked.

"They met in Florida," she replied. He was certain she heard him wrong, but he thought at first maybe he heard her wrong.

"_What?"_

"She lived in Jacksonville as a little girl," she explained.

"My mother was an American?"

_Part American_, was all he was thinking. _I have American blood in me. _How was this something he never knew?

"Your father was an accountant-"

"No!" He protested, not realizing how sharp he was being. "You said Jacksonville?"

"Oh. Did I say Jacksonville?"

"Yes!"

"Jacksonville…that's where your mother was born. She lived there as a little girl." He had to fight the urge to let out a sigh of frustration; it paid off as she continued: "She moved to London as a child. She went back to Florida for university."

"My mother when to university in Florida?" He stammered.

"For one semester," the smallest hint of a smile crossed his grandmother's face. He wondered what memory she was recalling and wished desperately that he could see it. "She dropped out and moved back to London. She _despised_ Florida."

His mind was racing now. Florida. Jacksonville. America. Words he would never dream of connecting with his family.

"Does she still have family there?" He asked.

His knowledge of his mother's family was almost non-existent. He always wondered what they were like. He always assumed they were normal, brilliant even, considering they had so little to do with his father's family.

"I suppose."

Eyes lit with wonder, possibilities rushed through his head. Though none of this made sense he was already planning a trip to America in his mind. The more he fought London and the more he fought with his family the further away he wanted to be. Maybe that's where he was meant to be- America.

"So she was there…not even ten years?" He asked.

She offered a small shrug.

"Not even six, I suppose." She heaved a heavy sigh as she stared down into the tea. "How is your girlfriend, Mycroft?"

Instead of arguing he let his eyes fall to his mug. His fingers traced the rim as he contemplated all of this new information.

For so long now he felt so empty. He knew part of the reason he was having trouble moving forward was because he still couldn't fully grasp who he actually was. Sometimes he felt like he had no real past. The only time he had with his mother felt like a distant dream. He couldn't even think of it most days without getting so anxious and nostalgic that he would become sick. The thought that somewhere out there lay a new part of his family history was exhilarating. It made him wonder what he was doing sitting there, in an old cottage with an elderly woman he could hardly even call a relative.

"I'm going to lie down," she announced suddenly.

She struggled to stand, and he grabbed hold of her arm just in time before she stumbled back. He was never acknowledged as he helped her into the sitting room. He watched as she climbed beneath the blankets on the sofa; he couldn't imagine how she had been able to get along for so long without any help.

"I hope you'll stay for dinner," she mumbled.

He didn't have the heart to scare her with the idea that he would be staying _much_ longer than dinner. He was beginning to wonder exactly what kind of relationship Mycroft had with their grandmother- from the lies to the misinformation, none of it seemed normal.

She was already halfway asleep when a half smile slipped from his lips and he whispered:

"I will."


	19. Jacksonville: Part One

Before "dying" in London in 2012, Sherlock only visited America twice. Two weeks living with his grandmother was enough family time for him. It was even less entertaining than living with Mycroft, if possible, except she seemed to keep forgetting which relative he was. Fourteen days in he told her he was offered temporary work for a while, and he bought a plan ticket to America with an emergency card Mycroft gave him.

Over eight hours later, a connecting flight from Atlanta pointed him toward Jacksonville. He stayed quiet the entire trip, and his eyes remained glued to the window as the Florida landscape slowly came into view.

"Landing is the worst part."

His eyes snapped to the voice next to him. He nearly forgot about the woman sitting next to him. She was older, perhaps in her late fifties although aging was not doing her any favors. Her hair, pulled back into a tight bun, was already greying. Deep wrinkles crisscrossed her face, and her hands trembled around her glass of Scotch. A romance novel lay forgotten in her lap.

"It's not bad," he mumbled, feeling obligated to reply.

A smile crossed her face.

"A fellow Londoner!" She exclaimed. "Oh that's exciting. What brings you to Jacksonville?"

Sherlock blinked, uncertain of what to say. He spent the trip deciding what he would say to this extended family he never met before- family who very possibly had no idea who he was. It was hard enough figuring out how to explain his intentions to them, let alone a stranger.

"I'm here for a trial," the woman continued when he stayed silent. "They think my husband murdered this poor girl."

His eyes went wide. He didn't know what was more shocking, the sudden confession or the thought this seemingly innocent, sweet, woman was caught up with the likes of a murder suspect.

"I'm sorry," he offered.

Her smile turned sad, and she shook her head.

"Oh, no worries my dear," she replied. "My name's Hudson, by the way."

She offered him a frail hand, and he shook it.

"Sherlock," he greeted. She grinned at the odd name, but he was relieved when she didn't ask about it. "Is your husband an American, Mrs. Hudson?"

Her eyebrows furrowed a bit before she admitted:

"He's Scottish, but he visits America quite frequently," she said. "He's younger than me, just by three years, but that seems to make all the difference in the world to him. We married late in life, just twelve years ago. He's spent most of that time working abroad as a salesman. They say he had an affair with one of his clients in Jacksonville and strangled the poor girl in the morning. When I say girl, I should really say woman. She was about fifty, after all."

"That's awful," he whispered.

He squirmed a bit in his seat. At the very mention of _strangle_ a memory flashed back to him that sent his hand flying to his neck, just to make sure he was okay.

"The cheating doesn't bother me so much as the murder," she admitted. Her voice fell, trembling a bit. "He was never very excited about our marriage, not after the second year or so. But how anyone could have it in them to do something so horrible…I just can't stand to think I'm married to the bastard."

His eyes widened, stunned at hearing a woman of her age swear.

"I just hope they find him guilty," she said.

She fell silent then and her eyes wondered away. He stared at her, unsure if he should be saying something else, but when she stayed quiet he found himself missing her company. There was something about her that was comforting, like he could trust her even though she was a complete stranger.

"I'm here to visit family," he admitted. "I found out my mother was born in Jacksonville, and she still has family here. I thought I would visit…but it's probably a stupid idea."

Mrs. Hudson turned to him and smiled again.

"Who are we if we don't know where we came from?" Mrs. Hudson said. "I think that's really sweet of you."

A grim smile formed at the corners of his lips. He wasn't sure what it was about this woman that made him want to confess everything. Maybe it was the idea of making her feel better about her situation, but something about her made him trust her completely. Then again, outside of university he hardly had conversations with strangers so perhaps he was being too trusting.

"I'll make you a deal," Mrs. Hudson said suddenly. "My own kids aren't supportive enough of me to come here with me to give my testimony, but I can't do this alone. If you come with me to the trial, I'll help you with your estranged family."

He studied her for a moment, too stunned to say anything. He was certain she was simply a lonely woman who, as she said, had very few people to support and trust. But while he felt sorry for her and enjoyed talking to her, he knew the risks of becoming too close to someone. Eventually she would realize the kind person he was, the kind of family he came from, and realize he wasn't too different than what she was trying to run from.

But as the plane came closer to landing his heart pounded faster, reminding him how intimidating visiting a new country was. He had no plan past exiting the airport, and he wasn't too confident this trip wouldn't end with him wondering around Florida lost and broke.

"Would they let me in the courtroom?" He asked.

She sighed.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "You seem nice, Sherlock, and frankly I haven't met many nice people lately. Will you at least let me buy you some lunch?"

At the mention of food his stomach grumbled. He spent nearly all the credit on the plane ticket, leaving just enough for a hotel room. She would probably forget her offer of helping him with his family by the next morning, but how much would food hurt?

He finally drew in a deep breath and nodded:

"Okay."

* * *

Author's Note: I originally intended to keep this strictly about Sherlock and Mycroft, but since I'm telling the story of how Sherlock became Sherlock I couldn't resist introducing Mrs. Hudson. Also, I am so, SO incredibly sorry for the impromptu hiatus. I was extremely ill throughout most of March and eventually ended up in the hospital. I was hardly able to write at all and fell behind on all of my stories. But if people are still interested I'm happy to bring this story back to life!


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